SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 
AND  OTHER  TALES 


WORKS    BY    H.    RIDER    HAGGARD 


PARLIAMENTARY  BLUE-BOOK. 
REPORT  TO  H.M.'s  GOVERNMENT  ON  THE  SALVATION 
ARMY  COLONIES  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES,  WITH  SCHEME 
OF  NATIONAL  LAND  SETTLEMENT.     [Cd.  2562] 

POLITICAL  HISTORY. 
CETEWAYO  AND  HIS   WHITE  NEIGHBOURS. 


AGRICULTURE. 
LIFE. 


WORKS     ON    SOCIOLOGY, 
AND  COUNTRY 

RURAL  ENGLAND  (2  vols,).       \    THE  POOR  AND  THE  LAND. 
RURAL  DENMARK  AND  ITS        REGENERATION. 
LESSONS.  |    A  FARMER'S  YEAR. 

A  GARDENER'S  YEAR. 


BOOK  OF  TRAVEL. 
A  WINTER  PILGRIMAGE. 


DAWN. 

THE  WITCH'S  HEAD. 


COLONEL   QUARITCH,   V.C 


NOVELS. 

BEATRICE. 
JOAN  HASTE. 
DOCTOR  THERNE. 
STELLA  FREGELIUS. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  SPIRIT. 
ROMANCES. 


KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES. 

SHE. 

AYESHA:  The  Return  of  She. 

ALLAN  QUATERMAIN. 

MR.  MEESON'S  WILL. 

ALLAN'S  WIFE. 

CLEOPATRA. 

ERIC  BRIGHTEYES. 

NADA  THE  LILY. 

MONTEZUMA'S   DAUGHTER. 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  MIST. 

HEART  OF  THE  WORLD. 

SWALLOW. 

MARIE. 

THE    MAHATMA    AND    THE 

HARE. 
ALLAN     AND     THE     HOLY 

FLOWER. 
FINISHED. 
MOON  OF  ISRAEL. 
WIZARD  | 

SHE  AND 


BLACK  HEART  AND  WHITE 

HEART. 
LYSBETH. 
PEARL-MAIDEN. 
THE  BRETHREN. 
THE    SPIRIT   OF  BAMBATSB 

(BENITA). 

MARGARET. 

THE  GHOST  KINGS. 

THE  YELLOW  GOD  :  AN  IDOL 

OF  AFRICA. 
MORNING  STAR. 
THE  LADY  OP  BLOSSHOLME. 
QUEEN  SHEBA'S  RING. 
RED  EVE. 
CHILD  OF  STORM. 
THE  WANDERER  s  NECKLACE. 
THE  IVORY  CHILD. 
LOVE  ETERNAL. 
WHEN  THE  WORLD  SHOOK. 
THE  ANCIENT  ALLAN 
ALLAN 


(In  Collaboration  -with  Andrew  Lang) 
THE  WORLD'S  DESIRE. 


SMITH    AND   THE 
PHARAOHS 


AND  OTHER  TALES 


BY 

H.  RIDER  HAGGARD 

AUTHOR  OF 

*SHE,"  "ALLAN  QUATERMAIN,"  "KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES" 
"THE  WIZARD,"  ETC. 


LONGMANS,    GREEN    &    CO. 

FOURTH   AVENUE   AND   3oTH   STREET,   NEW   YORK 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
H.  RIDER  HAGGARD 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 

•./::•::   :      LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  Co. 
•  •    •••*;•    • 


CONTENTS 

Page 

SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS  .*»»..**  i 

MAGEPA  THE  BUCK     „    .,    .    .«-.:*.  69 

THE  BLUE  CURTAINS    ...*«.*.  89 

LITTLE  FLOWER ,    «    *    .  133 

ONLY  A  DREAM  ......«««.  225 

BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK  .     *    «    «    <    .  235 


4581G6 


Smith  and  the  Pharaohs 


SCIENTISTS,  or  some  scientists — for  occasionally  one 
learned  person  differs  from  other  learned  persons — 
tell  us  they  know  all  that  is  worth  knowing  about 
man,  which  statement,  of  course,  includes  woman. 
They  trace  him  from  his  remotest  origin ;  they  show 
us  how  his  bones  changed  and  his  shape  modified, 
also  how,  under  the  influence  of  his  needs  and  pas- 
sions, his  intelligence  developed  from  something  very 
humble.  They  demonstrate  conclusively  that  there 
is  nothing  in  man  which  the  dissecting-table  will  not 
explain;  that  his  aspirations  towards  another  life 
have  their  root  in  the  fear  of  death,  or,  say  others 
of  them,  in  that  of  earthquake  or  thunder ;  that  his 
affinities  with  the  past  are  merely  inherited  from 
remote  ancestors  who  lived  in  that  past,  perhaps  a 
million  years  ago;  and  that  everything  noble  about 
him  is  but  the  fruit  of  expediency  or  of  a  veneer  of 
civilisation,  while  everything  base  must  be  attributed 
to  the  instincts  of  his  dominant  and  primeval  nature. 
Man,  in  short,  is  an  animal  who,  like  every  other 
animal,  is  finally  subdued  by  his  environment  and 
takes  his  colour  from  his  surroundings,  as  cattle  do 


2          S'M'ITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

from  the  red  soil  of  Devon.  Such  are  the  facts, 
they  (or  some  of  them)  declare;  all  the  rest  is 
rubbish. 

At  times  we  are  inclined  to  agree  with  these  sages, 
especially  after  it  has  been  our  privilege  to  attend 
a  course  of  lectures  by  one  of  them.  Then  perhaps 
something  comes  within  the  range  of  our  experience 
which  gives  us  pause  and  causes  doubts,  the  old 
divine  doubts,  to  arise  again  deep  in  our  hearts,  and 
with  them  a  yet  diviner  hope. 

Perchance  when  all  is  said,  so  we  think  to  our- 
selves, man  is  something  more  than  an  animal. 
Perchance  he  has  known  the  past,  the  far  past,  and 
will  know  the  future,  the  far,  far  future.  Perchance 
the  dream  is  true,  and  he  does  indeed  possess  what 
for  convenience  is  called  an  immortal  soul,  that  may 
manifest  itself  in  one  shape  or  another;  that  may 
sleep  for  ages,  but,  waking  or  sleeping,  still  remains 
itself,  indestructible  as  the  matter  of  the  Universe. 

An  incident  in  the  career  of  Mr.  James  Ebenezer 
Smith  might  well  occasion  such  reflections,  were  any 
acquainted  with  its  details,  which  until  this,  its 
setting  forth,  was  not  the  case.  Mr.  Smith  is  a 
person  who  knows  when  to  be  silent.  Still,  undoubt- 
edly it  gave  cause  for  thought  to  one  individual — 
namely,  to  him  to  whom  it  happened.  Indeed,  James 
Ebenezer  Smith  is  still  thinking  over  it,  thinking 
very  hard  indeed. 

J.  E.  Smith  was  well  born  and  well  educated. 
When  he  was  a  good-looking  and  able  young  man  at 
college,  but  before  he  had  taken  his  degree,  trouble 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS  3 

came  to  him,  the  particulars  of  which  do  not  matter, 
and  he  was  thrown  penniless,  also  friendless,  upon 
the  rocky  bosom  of  the  world.  No,  not  quite 
friendless,  for  he  had  a  godfather,  a  gentleman 
connected  with  business  whose  Christian  name  was 
Ebenezer.  To  him,  as  a  last  resource,  Smith  went, 
feeling  that  Ebenezer  owed  him  something  in  return 
for  the  awful  appellation  wherewith  he  had  been 
endowed  in  baptism. 

To  a  certain  extent  Ebenezer  recognised  the  obli- 
gation. He  did  nothing  heroic,  but  he  found  his 
go-dson  a  clerkship  in  a  bank  of  which  he  was  one  of 
the  directors — a  modest  clerkship,  no  more.  Also, 
when  he  died  a  year  later,  he  left  him  a  hundred 
pounds  to  be  spent  upon  some  souvenir. 

Smith,  being  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind,  instead 
of  adorning  himself  with  memorial  jewellery  for 
which  he  had  no  use,  invested  the  hundred  pounds 
in  an  exceedingly  promising  speculation.  As  it 
happened,  he  was  not  misinformed,  and  his  talent 
returned  to  him  multiplied  by  ten.  He  repeated 
the  experiment,  and,  being  in  a  position  to  know 
what  he  was  doing,  with  considerable  success.  By 
the  time  that  he  was  thirty  he  found  himself  pos- 
sessed of  a  fortune  of  something  over  twenty-five 
thousand  pounds.  Then  (and  this  shows  the  wise 
and  practical  nature  of  the  man)  he  stopped  specu- 
lating and  put  out  his  money  in  such  a  fashion  that 
it  brought  him  a^  safe  and  clear  four  per  cent. 

By  this  time  Smith,  being  an  excellent  man  of 
business,  was  well  up  in  the  service  of  his  bank — as 
yet  only  a  clerk,  it  is  true,  but  one  who  drew  his  four 


4          SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

hundred  pounds  a  year,  with  prospects.  In  short,  he 
was  in  a  position  to  marry  had  he  wished  to  do  so. 
As  it  happened,  he  did  not  wish — perhaps  because, 
being  very  friendless,  no  lady  who  attracted  him 
crossed  his  path;  perhaps  for  other  reasons. 

Shy  and  reserved  in  temperament,  he  confided 
only  in  himself.  None,  not  even  his  superiors  at  the 
bank  or  the  Board  of  Management,  knew  how  well 
off  he  hac1  :come.  No  one  visited  him  at  the  flat 
which  he  .  un-rle^stood  to  occupy  somewhere  in 
the  neighbourhood  Putney;  he  belonged  to  no 
club,  and  possessed  not  a  single  intimate.  The  blow 
which  the  world  had  dealt  him  in  his  early  days, 
the  harsh  repulses  and  the  rough  treatment  he  had 
then  experienced,  sank  so  deep  into  his  sensitive 
soul  that  never  again  did  he  seek  close  converse 
with  his  kind.  In  fact,  while  still  young,  he  fell 
into  a  condition  of  old-bachelorhood  of  a  refined 
type. 

Soon,  however,  Smith  discovered — it  was  after  he 
had  given  up  speculating — that  a  man  must  have 
something  to  occupy  his  mind.  He  tried  philan- 
thropy, but  found  himself  too  sensitive  for  a  business 
which  so  often  resolves  itself  into  rude  inquiry  as  to 
the  affairs  of  other  people.  After  a  struggle,  there- 
fore, he  compromised  with  his  conscience  by  setting 
aside  a  liberal  portion  of  his  income  for  anonymous 
distribution  among  deserving  persons  and  objects. 

While  still  in  this  vacant  frame  of  mind  Smith 
chanced  one  day,  when  the  bank  was  closed,  to 
drift  into  the  British  Museum,  more  to  escape  the 
vile  weather  that  prevailed  without  than  for  any 
other  reason.  Wandering  hither  and  thither  at 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS          5 

hazard,  he  found  himself  in  the  great  gallery  devoted 
to  Egyptian  stone  objects  and  sculpture.  The  place 
bewildered  him  somewhat,  for  he  knew  nothing  of 
Egyptology;  indeed,  there  remained  upon  his  mind 
only  a  sense  of  wonderment  not  unmixed  with  awe. 
It  must  have  been  a  great  people,  he  thought  to 
himself,  that  executed  these  works,  and  with  the 
thought  came  a  desire  to  know  more  about  them. 
Yet  he  was  going  away  when  F  1  '  s  eye  fell 

on  the  sculptured  head  of  a  uch  hung 

upon  the  wall. 

Smith  looked  at  it  once,  twice,  thrice,  and  at  the 
third  look  he  fell  in  love.  Needless  to  say,  he  was 
not  aware  that  such  was  his  condition.  He  knew 
only  that  a  change  had  come  over  him,  and  never, 
never  could  he  forget  the  face  which  that  carven 
mask  portrayed.  Perhaps  it  was  not  really  beautiful 
save  for  its  wondrous  and  mystic  smile;  perhaps 
the  lips  were  too  thick  and  the  nostrils  too  broad. 
Yet  to  him  that  face  was  Beauty  itself,  beauty  which 
drew  him  as  with  a  cart-rope,  and  awoke  within  him 
all  kinds  of  wonderful  imaginings,  some  of  them  so 
strange  and  tender  that  almost  they  partook  of  the 
nature  of  memories.  He  stared  at  the  image,  and 
the  image  smiled  back  sweetly  at  him,  as  doubtless 
it,  or  rather  its  original — for  this  was  but  a  plaster 
cast — had  smiled  at  nothingness  in  some  tomb  or 
hiding-hole  for  over  thirty  centuries,  and  as  the 
woman  whose  likeness  it  was  had  once  smiled  upon 
the  world. 

A  short,  stout  gentleman  bustled  up  and,  in  tones 
of  authority,  addressed  some  workmen  who  were 


6          SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

arranging  a  base  for  a  neighbouring  statue.  It 
occurred  to  Smith  that  he  must  be  someone  who 
knew  about  these  objects.  Overcoming  his  natural 
diffidence  with  an  effort,  he  raised  his  hat  and  asked 
the  gentleman  if  he  could  tell  him  who  was  the 
original  of  the  mask. 

The  official — who,  in  fact,  was  a  very  great  man, 
in  the  Museum — glanced  at  Smith  shrewdly,  and, 
seeing  that  his  interest  was  genuine,  answered — 

"I  don't  know.  Nobody  knows.  She  has  been 
given  several  names,  but  none  of  them  have  author- 
ity. Perhaps  one  day  the  rest  of  the  statue  may  be 
found,  and  then  we  shall  learn — that  is,  if  it  is 
inscribed.  Most  likely,  however,  it  has  been  burnt 
for  lime  long  ago." 

"Then  you  can't  tell  me  anything  about  her?" 
•said  Smith. 

"Well,  only  a  little.  To  begin  with,  that's  a 
cast.  The  original  is  in  the  Cairo  Museum.  Mari- 
ette  found  it,  I  believe  at  Karnac,  and  gave  it  a  name 
after  his  fashion.  Probably  she  was  a  queen — of 
the  eighteenth  dynasty,  by  the  work.  But  you  can 
see  her  rank  for  yourself  from  the  broken  urczus." 
( Smith  did  not  stop  him  to  explain  that  he  had  not 
the  faintest  idea  what  a  ur&us  might  be,  seeing  that 
he  was  utterly  unfamiliar  with  the  snake-headed 
crest  of  Egyptian  royalty.)  "You  should  go  to 
Egypt  and  study  the  head  for  yourself.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  things  that  ever  was  found. 
Well,  I  must  be  off.  Good  day." 

And  he  bustled  down  the  long  gallery. 

Smith   found   his   way  upstairs    and   looked   at 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS  7 

mummies  and  other  things.  Somehow  it  hurt  him 
to  reflect  that  the  owner  of  yonder  sweet,  alluring 
face  must  have  become  a  mummy  long,  long  before 
the  Christian  era.  Mummies  did  not  strike  him  as 
attractive. 

He  returned  to  the  statuary  and  stared  at  his 
plaster  cast  till  one  of  the  workmen  remarked  to  his 
fellow  that  if  he  were  the  gent  he'd  go  and  look  at 
"a  live  'un"  for  a  change. 

Then  Smith  retired  abashed. 

On  his  way  home  he  called  at  his  bookseller's 
and  ordered  "all  the  best  works  on  Egyptology." 
When,  a  day  or  two  later,  they  arrived  in  a  packing- 
case,  together  with  a  bill  for  thirty-eight  pounds,  he 
was  somewhat  dismayed.  Still,  he  tackled  those 
books  like  a  man,  and,  being  clever  and  industrious, 
within  three  months  had  a  fair  working  knowledge 
of  the  subject,  and  had  even  picked  up  a  smattering 
of  hieroglyphics. 

In  January — that  was,  at  the  end  of  those  three 
months — Smith  astonished  his  Board  of  Directors 
by  applying  for  ten  weeks'  leave,  he  who  had 
hitherto  been  content  with  a  fortnight  in  the  year. 
When  questioned  he  explained  that  he  had  been  suf- 
fering from  bronchitis,  and  was  advised  to  take  a 
change  in  Egypt. 

"A  very  good  idea,"  said  the  manager ;  "but  I'm 
afraid  you'll  find  it  expensive.  They  fleece  one  in 
Egypt." 

"I  know,"  answered  Smith;  "but  I've  saved  a 
little,  and  have  only  myself  to  spend  it  upon." 

So  Smith  went  to  Egypt  and  saw  the  original  of 


8  SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

the  beauteous  head  and  a  thousand  other  fascinating 
things.  Indeed,  he  did  more.  Attaching  himself 
to  some  excavators  who  were  glad  of  his  intelligent 
assistance,  he  actually  dug  for  a  month  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  ancient  Thebes,  but  without  find- 
ing anything  in  particular. 

It  was  not  till  two  years  later  that  he  made  his 
great  discovery,  that  which  is  known  as  Smith's 
Tomb.  Here  it  may  be  explained  that  the  state  of 
his  health  had  become  such  as  to  necessitate  an 
annual  visit  to  Egypt,  or  so  his  superiors  under- 
stood. 

However,  as  he  asked  for  no  summer  holiday, 
and  was  always  ready  to  do  another  man's  work 
or  to  stop  overtime,  he  found  it  easy  to  arrange  for 
these  winter  excursions. 

On  this,  his  third  visit  to  Egypt,  Smith  obtained 
from  the  Director-General  of  Antiquities  at  Cairo  a 
licence  to  dig  upon  his  own  account.  Being  already 
well  known  in  the  country  as  a  skilled  Egyptologist, 
this  was  granted  upon  the  usual  terms — namely, 
that  the  Department  of  Antiquities  should  have  a 
right  to  take  any  of  the  objects  which  might  be 
found,  or  all  of  them,  if  it  so  desired. 

Such  preliminary  matters  having  been  arranged 
by  correspondence,  Smith,  after  a  few  days  spent  in 
the  Museum  at  Cairo,  took  the  night  train  to  Luxor, 
where  he  found  his  head-man,  an  ex-dragoman 
named  Mahomet,  waiting  for  him  and  his  fellaheen 
labourers  already  hired.  There  were  but  forty  of 
them,  for  his  was  a  comparatively  small  venture. 
Three  hundred  pounds  was  the  amount  that  he  had 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS  9 

made  up  his  mind  to  expend,  and  such  a  sum  does 
not  go  far  in  excavations. 

During  his  visit  of  the  previous  year  Smith  had 
marked  the  place  where  he  meant  to  dig.  It  was 
in  the  cemetery  of  old  Thebes,  at  the  wild  spot  not 
far  from  the  temple  of  Medinet  Habu,  that  is  known 
as  the  Valley  of  the  Queens.  Here,  separated  from 
the  resting-places  of  their  royal  lords  by  the  bold 
mass  of  the  intervening  hill,  some  of  the  greatest 
ladies  of  Egypt  have  been  laid  to  rest,  and  it  was 
their  tombs  that  Smith  desired  to  investigate.  As 
he  knew  well,  some  of  these  must  yet  remain  to  be 
discovered.  Who  could  say?  Fortune  favours  the 
bold.  It  might  be  that  he  would  find  the  holy  grave 
of  that  beauteous,  unknown  Royalty  whose  face  had 
haunted  him  for  three  long  years ! 

For  a  whole  month  he  dug  without  the  slightest 
success.  The  spot  that  he  selected  had  proved, 
indeed,  to  be  the  mouth  of  a  tomb.  After  twenty- 
five  days  of  laborious  exploration  it  was  at  length 
cleared  out,  and  he  stood  in  a  rude  unfinished  cave. 
The  queen  for  whom  it  had  been  designed  must  have 
died  quite  young  and  been  buried  elsewhere,  or 
she  had  chosen  herself  another  sepulchre,  or  may- 
hap the  rock  had  proved  unsuitable  for  sculpture. 

Smith  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  moved  on, 
sinking  trial  pits  and  trenches  here  and  there,  but 
still  finding  nothing.  Two-thirds  of  his  time  and 
money  had  been  spent  when  at  last  the  luck  turned. 
One  day,  towards  evening,  with  some  half-dozen  of 
his  best  men  he  was  returning  after  a  fruitless 
morning  of  labour,  when  something  seemed  to 


io         SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

attract  him  towards  a  little  wadi,  or  bay,  in  the 
hillside  that  was  filled  with  tumbled  rocks  and  sand. 
There  were  scores  of  such  places,  and  this  one 
looked  no  more  promising  than  any  of  the  others 
had  proved  to  be.  Yet  it  attracted  him.  Thoroughly 
dispirited,  he  walked  past  it  twenty  paces  or  more, 
then  turned. 

"Where  go  you,  sah?"  asked  his  head-man, 
Mahomet. 

He  pointed  to  the  recess  in  the  cliff. 

"No  good,  sah/*  said  Mahomet.  "No  tomb 
there.  Bed-rock  too  near  top.  Too  much  water 
run  in  there ;  dead  queen  like  keep  dry !" 

But  Smith  went  on,  and  the  others  followed 
obediently. 

He  walked  down  the  little  slope  of  sand  and 
boulders  and  examined  the  cliff.  It  was  virgin 
rock;  never  a  tool  mark  was  to  be  seen.  Already 
the  men  were  going,  when  the  same  strange  instinct 
which  had  drawn  him  to  the  spot  caused  him  to 
take  a  spade  from  one  of  them  and  begin  to  shovel 
away  the  sand  from  the  face  of  the  cliff — for  here, 
for  some  unexplained  reason,  were  no  boulders  or 
debris.  Seeing  their  master,  to  whom  they  were 
attached,  at  work,  they  began  to  work  too,  and  for 
twenty  minutes  or  more  dug  on  cheerfully  enough, 
just  to  humour  him,  since  all  were  sure  that  here 
there  was  no  tomb.  At  length  Smith  ordered  them 
to  desist,  for,  although  now  they  were  six  feet  down, 
the  rock  remained  of  the  same  virgin  character. 

With  an  exclamation  of  disgust  he  threw  out  a 
last  shovelful  of  sand.  The  edge  of  his  spade  struck 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         u 

on  something  that  projected.  He  cleared  away  a 
little  more  sand,  and  there  appeared  a  rounded  ledge 
which  seemed  to  be  a  cornice.  Calling  back  the  men, 
he  pointed  to  it,  and  without  a  word  all  of  them 
began  to  dig  again.  Five  minutes  more  of  work 
made  it  clear  that  it  was  a  cornice,  and  half  an  hour 
later  there  appeared  the  top  of  the  doorway  of  a 
tomb. 

"Old  people  wall  him  up,"  said  Mahomet,  point- 
ing to  the  flat  stones  set  in  mud  for  mortar  with 
which  the  doorway  had  been  closed,  and  to  the  un- 
decipherable impress  upon  the  mud  of  the  scarab 
seals  of  the  officials  whose  duty  it  had  been  to  close 
the  last  resting-place  of  the  royal  dead  for  ever. 

"Perhaps  queen  all  right  inside,"  he  went  on, 
receiving  no  answer  to  his  remark. 

"Perhaps,"  replied  Smith,  briefly.  "Dig,  man, 
dig !  Don't  waste  time  in  talking." 

So  they  dug  on  furiously  till  at  length  Smith  saw 
something  which  caused  him  to  groan  aloud.  There 
was  a  hole  in  the  masonry — the  tomb  had  been 
broken  into.  Mahomet  saw  it  too,  and  examined 
the  top  of  the  aperture  with  his  skilled  eye. 

"Very  old  thief,"  he  said.  "Look,  he  try  build 
up  wall  again,  but  run  away  before  he  have  time 
finish."  And  he  pointed  to  certain  flat  stones  which 
had  been  roughly  and  hurriedly  replaced. 

"Dig—dig!"  said  Smith. 

Ten  minutes  more  and  the  aperture  was  cleared. 
It  was  only  just  big  enough  to  admit  the  body  of  a 
man. 

By  now  the  sun  was  setting.     Swiftly,  swiftly  it 


12         SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

seemed  to  tumble  down  the  sky.  One  minute  it  was 
above  the  rough  crests  of  the  western  hills  behind 
them;  the  next,  a  great  ball  of  glowing  fire,  it 
rested  on  their  topmost  ridge.  Then  it  was  gone. 
For  an  instant  a  kind  of  green  spark  shone  where 
it  had  been.  This  too  went  out,  and  the  sudden 
Egyptian  night  was  upon  them. 

The  fellaheen  muttered  among  themselves,  and 
one  or  two  of  them  wandered  off  on  some  pretext. 
The  rest  threw  down  their  tools  and  looked  at  Smith. 
"Men  say  they  no  like  stop  here.  They  afraid  of 
ghost!  Too  many  afreet  live  in  these  tomb.  That 
what  they  say.  Come  back  finish  to-morrow  morn- 
ing when  it  light.  Very  foolish  people,  these  com- 
mon fellaheen,"  remarked  Mahomet,  in  a  superior 
tone. 

"Quite  so,"  replied  Smith,  who  knew  well  that 
nothing  that  he  could  offer  would  tempt  his  men  to 
go  on  with  the  opening  of  a  tomb  after  sunset. 
"Let  them  go  away.  You  and  I  will  stop  and  watch 
the  place  till  morning." 

"Sorry,  sah,"  said  Mahomet,  "but  I  not  feel 
quite  well  inside ;  I  think  I  got  fever.  I  go  to  camp 
and  lie  down  and  pray  under  plenty  blanket." 

"All  right,  go,"  said  Smith ;  "but  if  there  is  any- 
one who  is  not  a  coward,  let  him  bring  me  my  big 
coat,  something  to  eat  and  drink,  and  the  lantern 
that  hangs  in  my  tent.  I  will  meet  him  there  in  the 
valley." 

Mahomet,  though  rather  doubtfully,  promised 
that  this  should  be  done,  and,  after  begging  Smith 
to  accompany  them,  lest  the  spirit  of  whoever  slept 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         13 

in  the  tomb  should  work  him  a  mischief  during  the 
night,  they  departed  quickly  enough. 

Smith  lit  his  pipe,  sat  down  on  the  sand,  and 
waited.  Half  an  hour  later  he  heard  a  sound  of 
singing,  and  through  the  darkness,  which  was  dense, 
saw  lights  coming  up  the  valley. 

"My  brave  men,"  he  thought  to  himself,  and 
scrambled  up  the  slope  to  meet  them. 

He  was  right.  These  were  his  men,  no  less  than 
twenty  of  them,  for  with  a  fewer  number  they  did 
not  dare  to  face  the  ghosts  which  they  believed 
haunted  the  valley  after  nightfall.  Presently  the 
light  from  the  lantern  which  one  of  them  carried 
(not  Mahomet,  whose  sickness  had  increased  too 
suddenly  to  enable  him  to  come)  fell  upon  the  tall 
form  of  Smith,  who,  dressed  in  his  white  working 
clothes,  was  leaning  against  a  rock.  Down  went  the 
lantern,  and  with  a  howl  of  terror  the  brave  com- 
pany turned  and  fled. 

"Sons  of  cowards !"  roared  Smith  after  them,  in 
his  most  vigorous  Arabic.  "It  is  I,  your  master, 
not  an  afreet" 

They  heard,  and  by  degrees  crept  back  again. 
Then  he  perceived  that  in  order  to  account  for  their 
number  each  of  them  carried  some  article.  Thus 
one  had  the  bread,  another  the  lantern,  another  a 
tin  of  sardines,  another  the  sardine-opener,  another 
a  box  of  matches,  another  a  bottle  of  beer,  and  so  on. 
As  even  thus  there  were  not  enough  things  to  go 
round,  two  of  them  bore  his  big  coat  between  them, 
the  first  holding  it  by  the  sleeves  and  the  second  by 
the  tail  as  though  it  were  a  stretcher. 


14        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

"Put  them  down/'  said  Smith,  and  they  obeyed. 
"Now,"  he  added,  "run  for  your  lives ;  I  thought  I 
heard  two  afreets  talking  up  there  just  now  of  what 
they  would  do  to  any  followers  of  the  Prophet  who 
mocked  their  gods,  if  perchance  they  should  meet 
them  in  their  holy  place  at  night." 

This  kindly  counsel  was  accepted  with  much 
eagerness.  In  another  minute  Smith  was  alone  with 
the  stars  and  the  dying  desert  wind. 

Collecting  his  goods,  or  as  many  of  them  as  he 
wanted,  he  thrust  them  into  the  pockets  of  the  great- 
coat and  returned  to  the  mouth  of  the  tomb.  Here 
he  made  his  simple  meal  by  the  light  of  the  lantern, 
and  afterwards  tried  to  go  to  sleep.  But  sleep  he 
could  not.  Something  always  woke  him.  First  it 
was  a  jackal  howling  amongst  the  rocks;  next  a 
sand-fly  bit  him  on  the  ankle  so  sharply  that  he 
thought  he  must  have  been  stung  by  a  scorpion. 
Then,  notwithstanding  his  warm  coat,  the  cold  got 
'hold  of  him,  for  the  clothes  beneath  were  wet 
tlhrough  with  perspiration,  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  unless  he  did  something  he  would  probably  con- 
tract an  internal  chill  or  perhaps  fever.  He  rose  and 
walked  about. 

By  now  the  moon  was  up,  revealing  all  the  sad, 
wild  scene  in  its  every  detail.  The  mystery  of 
Egypt  entered  his  soul  and  oppressed  him.  How 
much  dead  majesty  lay  in  the  hill  upon  which  he 
stood  ?  Were  they  all  really  dead,  he  wondered,  or 
were  those  fellaheen  right?  Did  their  spirits  still 
come  forth  at  night  and  wander  through  the  land 
Where  once  they  ruled?  Of  course  that  was  the 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         15 

Egyptian  faith  according  to  which  the  Ka,  or 
Double,  eternally  haunted  the  place  where  its  earthly 
counterpart  had  been  laid  to  rest.  When  one  came 
to  think  of  it,  beneath  a  mass  of  unintelligible 
symbolism  there  was  much  in  the  Egyptian  faith 
which  it  was  hard  for  a  Christian  to  disbelieve. 
Salvation  through  a  Redeemer,  for  instance,  and 
the  resurrection  of  the  body.  Had  he,  Smith,  not 
already  written  a  treatise  upon  these  points  of 
similarity  which  he  proposed  to  publish  one  day, 
not  under  his  own  name?  Well,  he  would  not 
think  of  them  now;  the  occasion  seemed  scarcely 
fitting — they  came  home  too  pointedly  to  one  who 
was  engaged  in  violating  a  tomb. 

His  mind,  or  rather  his  imagination — of  which 
he  had  plenty — went  off  at  a  tangent.  What  sights 
had  this  place  seen  thousands  of  years  ago!  Once, 
thousands  of  years  ago,  a  procession  had  wound  up 
along  the  roadway  which  was  doubtless  buried 
beneath  the  sand  whereon  he  stood  towards  the  dark 
door  of  this  sepulchre.  He  could  see  it  as  it  passed 
in  and  out  between  the  rocks.  The  priests,  shaven- 
headed  and  robed  in  leopards'  skins,  or  some  of 
them  in  pure  white,  bearing  the  mystic  symbols 
of  their  office.  The  funeral  sledge  drawn  by  oxen, 
and  on  it  the  great  rectangular  case  that  contained 
the  outer  and  the  inner  coffins,  and  within  them  the 
mummy  of  some  departed  Majesty;  in  the  Egyptian 
formula,  "the  hawk  that  had  spread  its  wings  and 
flown  into  the  bosom  of  Osiris,"  God  of  Death. 
Behind,  the  mourners,  rending  the  air  with  their 
lamentations.  Then  those  who  bore  the  funeral 


16        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

furniture  and  offerings.  Then  the  high  officers  of 
State  and  the  first  priests  of  Amen  and  of  the  other 
gods.  Then  the  sister  queens,  leading  by  the  hand 
a  wondering  child  or  two.  Then  the  sons  of 
Pharaoh,  young  men  carrying  the  emblems  of  their 
rank. 

Lastly,  walking  alone,  Pharaoh  himself  in  his 
ceremonial  robes,  his  ,apron,  his  double  crown  of 
linen  surmounted  by  the  golden  snake,  his  inlaid 
bracelets  and  his  heavy,  tinkling  earrings.  Pharaoh, 
his  head  bowed,  his  feet  travelling  wearily,  and  in 
his  heart — what  thoughts?  Sorrow,  perhaps,  for 
her  who  had  departed.  Yet  he  had  other  queens 
and  fair  women  without  count.  Doubtless  she  was 
sweet  and  beautiful,  but  sweetness  and  beauty  were 
not  given  to  her  alone.  Moreover,  was  she  not  wont 
to  cross  his  will  and  to  question  his  divinity?  No, 
surely  it  is  not  only  of  her  that  he  thinks,  her  for 
whom  he  had  prepared  this  splendid  tomb  with  all 
things  needful  to  unite  her  with  the  gods.  Surely  he 
thinks  also  of  himself  and  that  other  tomb  on  the 
fartftier  side  of  the  hill  whereat  the  artists  labour 
day  by  day — yes,  and  have  laboured  these  many 
years;  that  tomb  to  which  before  so  very  long  he 
too  must  travel  in  just  this  fashion,  to  seek  his 
place  beyond  the  doors  of  Death,  who  lays  his  equal 
hand  on  king  and  queen  and  slave. 

The  vision  passed.  It  was  so  real  that  Smith 
thought  he  must  have  been  dreaming.  Well,  he  was 
awake  now,  and  colder  than  ever.  Moreover,  the 
jackals  had  multiplied.  There  were  a  whole  pack 
of  them,  and  not  far  away.  Look!  One  crossed 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         17 

in  the  ring  of  the  lamplight,  a  slinking,  yellow  beast 
that  smelt  the  remains  of  dinner.  Or  perhaps  it 
smelt  himself.  Moreover,  there  were  bad  characters 
who  haunted  these  mountains,  and  he  was  alone  and 
quite  unarmed.  Perhaps  he  ought  to  put  out  the 
light  which  advertised  his  whereabouts.  It  would 
be  wise,  and  yet  in  this  particular  he  rejected  wis- 
dom. After  all,  the  light  was  some  company. 

Since  sleep  seemed  to  be  out  of  the  question,  he 
fell  back  upon  hoor  humanity's  other  anodyne,  work, 
which  has  the  incidental  advantage  of  generating 
warmth.  Seizing  a  shovel,  he  began  to  dig  at  the 
doorway  of  the  tomb,  whilst  the  jackals  howled 
louder  than  ever  in  astonishment.  They  were  not 
used  to  such  a  sight.  For  thousands  of  years,  as 
the  old  moon  above  could  have  told,  no  man,  or  at 
least  no  solitary  man,  had  dared  to  rob  tombs  at 
such  an  unnatural  hour. 

When  Smith  had  been  digging  for  about  twenty 
minutes  something  tinkled  on  his  shovel  with  a  noise 
which  sounded  loud  in  that  silence. 

"A  stone  which  may  come  in  handy  for  the 
jackals,"  he  thought  to  himself,  shaking  the  sand 
slowly  off  the  spade  until  it  appeared.  There  it  was, 
and  not  large  enough  to  be  of  much  service.  Still, 
he  picked  it  up,  and  rubbed  it  in  his  hands  to  clear 
off  the  encrusting  dirt.  When  he  opened  them  he 
saw  that  it  was  no  stone,  but  a  bronze. 

"Osiris,"  reflected  Smith,  "buried  in  front  of  the 
tomb  to  hallow  the  ground.  No,  an  Isis.  No,  the 
head  of  a  statuette,  and  a  jolly  good  one,  too — at 
any  rate,  in  moonlight.  Seems  to  have  been  gilded." 


i8         SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

And,  reaching  out  for  the  lamp,  he  held  it  over  the 
object. 

Another  minute,  and  he  found  himself  sitting 
at  the  bottom  of  the  hole,  lamp  in  one  hand  and 
statuette,  or  rather  head,  in  the  other. 

"The  Queen  of  the  Mask!"  he  gasped.  "The 
same — the  same!  By  heavens,  the  very  same!" 

Oh,  he  could  not  be  mistaken.  There  were  the 
identical  lips,  a  little  thick  and  pouted ;  the  identical 
nostrils,  curved  and  quivering,  but  a  little  wide ;  the 
identical  arched  eyebrows  and  dreamy  eyes  set 
somewhat  far  apart.  Above  all,  there  was  the 
identical  alluring  and  mysterious  smile.  Only  on 
this  masterpiece  of  ancient  art  was  set  a  whole  crown 
of  urcei  surrounding  the  entire  head.  Beneath  the 
crown  and  pressed  back  behind  the  ears  was  a  full- 
bottomed  wig  or  royal  head-dress,  of  which  the 
ends  descended  to  the  breasts.  The  statuette,  that, 
having  been  gilt,  remained  quite  perfect  and  uncor- 
roded,  was  broken  just  above  the  middle,  apparently 
by  a  single  violent  blow,  for  the  fracture  was  very 
clean. 

At  once  it  occurred  to  Smith  that  it  had  been 
stolen  from  the  tomb  by  a  thief  who  thought  it  to 
be  gold;  that  outside  of  the  tomb  doubt  had  over- 
taken him  and  caused  him  to  break  it  upon  a  stone 
or  otherwise.  The  rest  was  clear.  Finding  that  it 
was  but  gold-washed  bronze  he  had  thrown  away 
the  fragments,  rather  than  be  at  the  pains  of  carry- 
ing them.  This  was  his  theory,  probably  not  a 
correct  one,  as  the  sequel  seems  to  show. 

Smith's  first  idea  was  to  recover  the  other  portion. 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         19 

He  searched  quite  a  long  while,  but  without  success. 
Neither  then  nor  afterwards  could  it  be  found.  He 
reflected  that  perhaps  this  lower  half  had  remained 
in  the  thief's  hand,  who,  in  his  vexation,  had  thrown 
it  far  away,  leaving  the  head  to  lie  where  it  fell. 
Again  Smith  examined  this  head,  and  more  closely. 
Now  he  saw  that  just  beneath  the  breasts  was  a 
delicately  cut  cartouche. 

Being  by  this  time  a  master  of  hieroglyphics,  he 
read  it  without  trouble.  It  ran:  "Ma-Mee,  Great 

Royal  Lady.  Beloved  of "  Here  the  cartouche 

was  broken  away. 

"Ma-Me,  or  it  might  be  Ma-Mi,"  he  reflected. 
"I  never  heard  of  a  queen  called  Ma-Me,  or  Ma-Mi, 
or  Ma-Mu.  She  must  be  quite  new  to  history. 
I  wonder  of  whom  she  was  beloved?  Amen,  or 
Horus,  or  Isis,  probably.  Of  some  god,  I  have  no 
doubt,  at  least  I  hope  so!" 

He  stared  at  the  beautiful  portrait  in  his  hand,  as 
once  he  had  stared  at  the  cast  on  the  Museum  wall, 
and  the  beautiful  portrait,  emerging  from  the  dust 
of  ages,  smiled  back  at  Him  there  in  the  solemn 
moonlight  as  once  the  cast  had  smiled  from  the 
Museum  wall. 

Only  that  had  been  but  a  cast,  whereas  this  was 
real.  This  had  slept  with  the  dead  from  whose 
features  it  had  been  fashioned,  the  dead  who  lay, 
or  who  had  lain,  within. 

A  sudden  resolution  took  hold  of  Smith.  He 
would  explore  that  tomb,  at  once  and  alone.  No 
one  should  accompany  him  on  this  his  first  visit;  it 
would  be  a  sacrilege  that  anyone  save  himself  should 


20        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

set  foot  there  until  he  had  looked  on  what  it  might 
contain. 

Why  should  he  not  enter?  His  lamp,  of  what  is 
called  the  "hurricane"  brand,  was  very  good  and 
bright,  and  would  burn  for  many  hours.  Moreover, 
there  had  been  time  for  the  foul  air  to  escape 
through  the  hole  that  they  had  cleared.  Lastly, 
something  seemed  to  call  on  him  to  come  and  see. 
He  placed  the  bronze  head  in  his  breast-pocket  over 
his  heart,  and,  thrusting  the  lamp  through  the  hole, 
looked  down.  Here  there  was  no  difficulty,  since 
sand  had  drifted  in  to  the  level  of  the  bottom  of  the 
aperture.  Through  it  he  struggled,  to  find  himself 
upon  a  bed  of  sand  that  only  just  left  him  room  to 
push  himself  along  between  it  and  the  roof.  A 
little  farther  on  the  passage  was  almost  filled  with 
mud. 

Mahomet  had  been  right  when,  from  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  bed-rock,  he  said  that  any  tomb  made  in 
this  place  must  be  flooded.  It  had  been  flooded  by 
some  ancient  rain-storm,  and  Smith  began  to  fear 
that  he  would  find  it  quite  filled  with  soil  caked  as 
hard  as  iron.  So,  indeed,  it  was  to  a  certain  depth, 
a  result  that  apparently  had  been  anticipated  by 
those  who  hollowed  it,  for  this  entrance  shaft  was 
left  quite  undecorated.  Indeed,  as  Smith  found 
afterwards,  a  hole  had  been  dug  beneath  the  door- 
way to  allow  the  mud  to  enter  after  the  burial  was 
completed.  Only  a  miscalculation  had  been  made. 
The  natural  level  of  the  mud  did  not  quite  reacli 
the  roof  of  the  tomb,  and  therefore  still  left  it  open. 

After  crawling  for  forty  feet  or  so  over  this  caked 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         21 

mua,  Smith  suddenly  found  himself  on  a  rising  stair. 
Then  he  understood  the  plan;  the  tomb  itself  was 
on  a  higher  level. 

Here  began  the  paintings.  Here  the  Queen  Ma- 
Mee,  wearing  her  crowns  and  dressed  in  diaphanous 
garments,  was  presented  to  god  after  god.  Between 
'her  figure  and  those  of  the  divinities  the  wall  was 
covered  with  hieroglyphs  as  fresh  to-day  as  on  that 
when  the  artist  had  limned  them.  A  glance  told 
him  that  they  were  extracts  from  the  Book  of  the 
Dead.  When  the  thief  of  bygone  ages  had  broken 
into  the  tomb,  probably  not  very  long  after  the 
interment,  the  mud  over  which  Smith  had  just 
crawled  was  still  wet.  This  he  could  tell,  since  the 
clay  from  the  rascal's  feet  remained  upon  the  stairs, 
and  that  upon  his  fingers  had  stained  the  paintings 
on  the  wall  against  which  he  had  supported  him- 
self ;  indeed,  in  one  place  was  an  exact  impression  of 
his  hand,  showing  its  shape  and  even  the  lines  of 
the  skin. 

At  the  top  of  the  flight  of  steps  ran  another  pas- 
sage at  a  higher  level,  which  the  water  had  never 
reached,  and  to  right  and  left  were  the  beginnings 
of  unfinished  chambers.  It  was  clear  to  him  that 
this  queen  had  died  young.  Her  tomb,  as  she  or 
the  king  had  designed  it,  was  never  finished.  A  few 
more  paces,  and  the  passage  enlarged  itself  into  a 
'hall  about  thirty  feet  square.  The  ceiling  was  dec- 
orated with  vultures,  their  wings  outspread,  the 
looped  Cross  of  Life  hanging  from  their  talons.  On 
one  wall  her  Majesty  Ma-Mee  stood  expectant  while 
Anubis  weighed  her  heart  against  the  feather  of 


22        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

#> 

truth,  and  Thoth,  the  Recorder,  wrote  down  the 
verdict  upon  his  tablets.  All  her  titles  were 
given  to  her  here,  such  as — "Great  Royal  Heiress, 
Royal  Sister,  Royal  Wife,  Royal  Mother,  Lady  of 
the  Two  Lands,  Palm-branch  of  Love,  Beautiful- 
exceedingly." 

Smith  read  them  hurriedly  and  noted  that  no- 
where could  he  see  the  name  of  the  king  who  had 
been  her  husband.  It  would  almost  seem  as  though 
this  had  been  purposely  omitted.  On  the  other 
walls  Ma-Mee,  accompanied  by  her  Kaf  or  Double, 
made  offerings  to  the  various  gods,  or  uttered 
propitiatory  speeches  to  the  hideous  demons  of  the 
underworld,  declaring  their  names  to  them  and 
forcing  them  to  say:  "Pass  on.  Thou  art  pure!" 

Lastly,  on  the  end  wall,  triumphant,  all  her  trials 
done,  she,  the  justified  Osiris,  or  Spirit,  was  received 
by  the  god  Osiris,  Saviour  of  Spirits. 

All  these  things  Smith  noted  hurriedly  as  he 
swung  the  lamp  to  and  fro  in  that  hallowed  place. 
Then  he  saw  something  else  which  filled  him  with 
dismay.  On  the  floor  of  the  chamber  where  the 
coffins  had  been — for  this  was  the  burial  chamber — 
lay  a  heap  of  black  fragments  charred  with  fire. 
Instantly  he  understood.  After  the  thief  had  done 
his  work  he  had  burned  the  mummy-cases,  and  with 
them  the  body  of  the  queen.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  that  this  was  so,  for  look!  among  the  ashes 
lay  some  calcined  human  bones,  while  the  roof  above 
was  blackened  with  the  smoke  and  cracked  by  the 
heat  of  the  conflagration.  There  was  nothing  left 
for  him  to  find ! 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS        23 

Oppressed  with  the  closeness  of  the  atmosphere, 
he  sat  down  upon  a  little  bench  or  table  cut  in  the 
rock  that  evidently  had  been  meant  to  receive 
offerings  to  the  dead.  Indeed,  on  it  still  lay  the 
scorched  remains  of  some  votive  flowers.  Here,  his 
lamp  between  his  feet,  he  rested  a  while,  staring  at 
those  calcined  bones.  See,  yonder  was  the  lower 
jaw,  and  in  it  some  teeth,  small,  white,  regular  and 
but  little  worn.  Yes,  she  had  died  young.  Then 
he  turned  to  go,  for  disappointment  and  the  holiness 
of  the  place  overcame  him ;  he  could  endure  no  more 
of  it  that  night. 

Leaving  the  burial  hall,  he  walked  along  the 
painted  passage,  the  lamp  swinging  and  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  floor.  He  was  disheartened,  and  the 
paintings  could  wait  till  the  morrow.  He  descended 
the  steps  and  came  to  the  foot  of  the  mud  slope. 
Here  suddenly  he  perceived,  projecting  from  some 
sand  that  had  drifted  down  over  the  mud,  what 
seemed  to  be  the  corner  of  a  reed  box  or  basket.  To 
clear  away  the  sand  was  easy,  and — yes,  it  was  a 
basket,  a  foot  or  so  in  length,  such  a  basket  as  the 
old  Egyptians  used  to  contain  the  funeral  figures 
which  are  called  ushaptis,  or  other  objects  connected 
with  the  dead.  It  looked  as  though  it  had  been 
dropped,  for  it  lay  upon  its  side.  Smith  opened  it — 
not  very  hopefully,  for  surely  nothing  of  value 
would  have  been  abandoned  thus. 

The  first  thing  that  met  his  eyes  was  a  mummied 
hand,  broken  off  at  the  wrist,  a  woman's  little  hand, 
most  delicately  shaped.  It  was  withered  and  paper- 
white,  but  the  contours  still  remained;  the  long 


24        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

fingers  were  perfect,  and  the  almond-shaped  nails 
had  been  stained  with  henna,  as  was  the  embalmers' 
fashion.  On  the  hand  were  two  gold  rings,  and 
for  those  rings  it  had  been  stolen.  Smith  looked  at 
it  for  a  long  while,  and  his  heart  swelled  within  him, 
for  here  was  the  hand  of  that  royal  lady  of  his 
dreams. 

Indeed,  he  did  more  than  look;  he  kissed  it,  and 
as  his  lips  touched  the  holy  relic  it  seemed  to  him  as 
though  a  wind,  cold  but  scented,  blew  upon  his 
brow.  Then,  growing  fearful  of  the  thoughts  that 
arose  within  him,  he  hurried  his  mind  back  to  the 
world,  or  rather  to  the  examination  of  the  basket. 

Here  he  found  other  objects  roughly  wrapped  in 
fragments  of  mummy-cloth  that  had  been  torn  from 
the  body  of  the  queen.  These  it  is  needless  to 
describe,  for  are  they  not  to  be  seen  in  the  gold  room 
of  the  Museum,  labelled  "Bijouterie  de  la  Reine 
Ma-Me,  XVIIIeme  Dynastie.  Thebes  (Smith's 
Tomb)"?  It  may  be  mentioned,  however,  that  the 
set  was  incomplete.  For  instance,  there  was  but  one 
of  the  great  gold  ceremonial  ear-rings  fashioned  like 
a  group  of  pomegranate  blooms,  and  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  the  necklaces  had  been  torn  in  two — half  of 
it  was  missing. 

It  was  clear  to  Smith  that  only  a  portion  of  the 
precious  objects  which  were  buried  with  the  mummy 
had  been  placed  in  this  basket.  Why  had  these  been 
left  where  he  found  them  ?  A  little  reflection  made 
that  clear  also.  Something  had  prompted  the  thief 
/to  'destroy  the  'desecrated  body  and  its  coffin  with 
fire,  probably  in  the  hope  of  hiding  his  evil  handi- 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         25 

work.  Then  he  fled  with  his  spoil.  But  he  had 
forgotten  how  fiercely  mummies  and  their  trappings 
can  burn.  Or  perhaps  the  thing  was  an  accident. 
He  must  have  had  a  lamp,  and  if  its  flame  chanced 
to  touch  this  bituminous  tinder ! 

At  any  rate,  the  smoke  overtook  the  man  in  that 
narrow  place  as  he  began  to  climb  the  slippery  slope 
of  clay.  In  his  haste  he  dropped  the  basket,  and 
dared  not  return  to  search  for  it.  It  could  wait  till 
the  morrow,  when  the  fire  would  be  out  and  the  air 
poire.  Only  for  this  desecrator  of  the  royal  dead  that 
morrow  never  came,  as  was  discovered  afterwards. 

When  at  length  Smith  struggled  into  the  open  air 
the  stars  were  paling  before  the  dawn.  An  hour 
later,  after  the  sky  was  well  up,  Mahomet  (recovered 
from  his  sickness)  and  his  myrmidons  arrived. 

"I  have  been  busy  while  you  slept,"  said  Smith, 
showing  them  the  mummied  hand  (but  not  the  rings 
which  he  had  removed  from  the  shrunk  fingers),  and 
the  broken  bronze,  but  not  the  priceless  jewellery 
which  was  hidden  in  his  pockets. 

For  the  next  ten  days  they  dug  till  the  tomb  and 
its  approach  were  quite  clear.  In  the  sand,  at  the 
head  of  a  flight  of  steps  which  led  down  to  the  door- 
way, they  found  the  skeleton  of  a  man,  who  evi- 
dently had  been  buried  there  in  a  hurried  fashion. 
His  skull  was  shattered  by  the  blow  of  an  axe,  and 
the  shaven  scalp  that  still  clung  to  it  suggested  that 
he  might  have  been  a  priest. 

Mahomet  thought,  and  Smith  agreed  with  him, 
that  this  was  the  person  who  had  violated  the  tomb. 


26        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

As  he  was  escaping  from  it  the  guards  of  the  holy 
place  surprised  him  after  he  had  covered  up  the  hole 
by  which  he  had  entered  and  purposed  to  return. 
There  they  executed  him  without  trial  and  divided 
up  the  plunder,  thinking  that  no  more  was  to  be 
found.  Or  perhaps  his  confederates  killed  him. 

Such  at  least  were  the  theories  advanced  by 
Mahomet.  Whether  they  were  right  or  wrong  none 
will  ever  know.  For  instance,  the  skeleton  may  not 
have  been  that  of  the  thief,  though  probability 
appears  to  point  the  other  way. 

Nothing  more  was  found  in  the  tomb,  not  even 
a  scarab  or  a  mummy-bead.  Smith  spent  the  re- 
mainder of  his  time  in  photographing  the  pictures 
and  copying  the  inscriptions,  which  for  various 
reasons  proved  to  be  of  extraordinary  interest. 
Then,  having  reverently  buried  the  charred  bones 
of  the  queen  in  a  secret  place  of  the  sepulchre,  he 
handed  it  over  to  the  care  of  the  local  Guardian  of 
Antiquities,  paid  off  Mahomet  and  the  fellaheen,  and 
departed  for  Cairo.  With  him  went  the  wonderful 
jewels  of  which  he  had  breathed  no  word,  and 
another  relic  to  him  yet  more  precious — the  hand  of 
her  Majesty  Ma-Mee,  Palm-branch  of  Love. 

And  now  follows  the  strange  sequel  of  this  story 
of  Smith  and  the  queen  Ma-Mee. 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         27 


II 

SMITH  was  seated  in  the  sanctum  of  the  distin- 
guished Director-General  of  Antiquities  at  the  new 
Cairo  Museum.  It  was  a  very  interesting  room. 
Books  piled  upon  the  floor;  objects  from  tombs 
awaiting  examination,  lying  here  and  there ;  a  hoard 
of  Ptolemaic  silver  coins,  just  dug  up  at  Alexandria, 
standing  on  the  table  in  the  pot  that  had  hidden  them 
for  two  thousand  years;  in  the  corner  the  mummy 
of  a  royal  child,  aged  six  or  seven,  not  long  ago 
discovered,  with  some  inscription  scrawled  upon  the 
wrappings  (brought  here  to  be  deciphered  by  the 
Master),  and  the  withered  lotus-bloom,  love's  last 
offering,  thrust  beneath  one  of  the  pink  retaining 
bands. 

"A  touching  object,"  thought  Smith  to  himself. 
"Really,  they  might  have  left  the  dear  little  girl  in 
peace." 

Smith  had  a  tender  heart,  but  even  as  he  reflected 
he  became  aware  that  some  of  the  jewellery  hidden 
in  an  inner  pocket  of  his  waistcoat  (designed  for 
bank-notes)  was  fretting  his  skin.  He  had  a  tender 
conscience  also. 

Just  then  the  Director,  a  French  savant,  bustled 
in,  alert,  vigorous,  full  of  interest. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Mr.  Smith!"  he  said,  in  his  excel- 
lent English.  "I  am  indeed  glad  to  see  you  back 
again,  especially  as  I  understand  that  you  are  come 


28         SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

rejoicing  and  bringing  your  sheaves  with  you.  They 
tell  me  you  have  been  extraordinarily  successful. 
What  do  you  say  is  the  name  of  this  queen  whose 
tomb  you  have  found — Ma-Mee?  A  very  unusual 
name.  How  do  you  get  the  extra  vowel  ?  Is  it  for 
euphony,  eh?  Did  I  not  know  how  good  a  scholar 
you  are,  I  should  be  tempted  to  believe  that  you  had 
misread  it.  Me-Mee,  Ma-Mee!  That  would  be 
pretty  in  French,  would  it  not?  Ma  mle — my 
darling!  Well,  I  dare  say  she  was  somebody's  mie, 
in  her  time.  But  tell  me  the  story." 

Smith  told  him  shortly  and  clearly;  also  he  pro- 
duced his  photographs  and  copies  of  inscriptions. 

"This  is  interesting — interesting  truly,"  said  the 
Director,  when  he  had  glanced  through  them. 
"You  must  leave  them  with  me  to  study.  Also  you 
will  publish  them,  is  it  not  so?  Perhaps  one  of  the 
Societies  would  help  you  with  the  cost,  for  it  should 
be  done  in  facsimile.  Look  at  this  vignette !  Most 
unusual.  Oh,  what  a  pity  that  scoundrelly  priest 
got  off  with  the  jewellery  and  burnt  her  Majesty's 
body!" 

"He  didn't  get  off  with  all  of  it." 

"What,  Mr.  Smith?  Our  inspector  reported  to 
me  that  you  found  nothing." 

"I  dare  say,  sir;  but  your  inspector  did  not  know 
what  I  found." 

"Ah,  you  are  a  discreet  man !    Well,  let  us  see." 

Slowly  Smith  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat.  From 
its  inner  pocket  and  elsewhere  about  his  person  he 
extracted  the  jewels  wrapped  in  mummy-cloth  as 
he  had  found  them.  First  he  produced  a  sceptre- 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         29 

head  of  gold,  in  the  shape  of  a  pomegranate  fruit 
and  engraved  with  the  throne  name  and  titles  of 
Ma-Mee. 

"What  a  beautiful  object!"  said  the  Director. 
"Look !  the  handle  was  of  ivory,  and  that  sacre  thief 
of  a  priest  smashed  it  out  at  the  socket.  It  was 
fresh  ivory  then ;  the  robbery  must  have  taken  place 
not  long  after  the  burial.  See,  this  magnifying- 
glass  shows  it.  Is  that  all  ?" 

Smith  handed  him  the  surviving  half  of  the 
marvellous  necklace  that  had  been  torn  in  two. 

"I  have  re-threaded  it,"  he  muttered,  "but  every 
bead  is  in  its  place." 

"Oh,  heavens!  How  lovely!  Note  the  cutting 
of  those  cornelian  heads  of  Hathor  and  the  gold 
lotus-blooms  between — yes,  and  the  enamelled  flies 
beneath.  We  have  nothing  like  it  in  the  Museum." 

So  it  went  on. 

"Is  that  all?"  gasped  the  Director  at  last,  when 
every  object  from  the  basket  glittered  before  them  on 
the  table. 

"Yes,"  said  Smith.  "That  is—no.  I  found  a 
broken  statuette  hidden  in  the  sand  outside  the  tomb. 
It  is  of  the  queen,  but  I  thought  perhaps  you  would 
allow  me  to  keep  this." 

"But  certainly,  Mr.  Smith ;  it  is  yours  indeed.  We 
are  not  niggards  here.  Still,  if  I  might  see  it — " 

From  yet  another  pocket  Smith  produced  the  head. 
The  Director  gazed  at  it,  then  he  spoke  with  feeling. 

"I  said  just  now  that  you  were  discreet,  Mr. 
Smith,  and  I  have  been  reflecting  that  you  are 
honest.  But  now  I  must  add  that  you  are  very 


30        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

clever.  If  you  had  not  made  me  promise  that  this 
bronze  should  be  yours  before  you  showed  it  to  me — 
well,  it  would  never  have  gone  into  that  pocket 
again.  And,  in  the  public  interest,  won't  you  release 
me  from  the  promise  ?" 

"No,"  said  Smith. 

"You  are  perhaps  not  aware,"  went  on  the  Di- 
rector, with  a  groan,  "that  this  is  a  portrait  of 
Mariette's  unknown  queen  whom  we  are  thus  able 
to  identify.  It  seems  a  pity  that  the  two  should  be 
separated ;  a  replica  we  could  let  you  have." 

"I  am  quite  aware,"  said  Smith,  "and  I  will  be 
sure  to  send  you  a  replica,  with  photographs.  Also 
I  promise  to  leave  the  original  to  some  museum  by 
will." 

The  Director  clasped  the  image  tenderly,  and, 
holding  it  to  the  light,  read  the  broken  cartouche 
beneath  the  breasts. 

"'Ma-Me,  Great  Royal  Lady.  Beloved  of—' 
Beloved  of  whom  ?  Well,  of  Smith,  for  one.  Take 
it,  monsieur,  and  hide  it  away  at  once,  lest  soon 
there  should  be  another  mummy  in  this  collection,  a 
modern  mummy  called  Smith ;  and,  in  the  name  of 
Justice,  let  the  museum  which  inherits  it  be  not  the 
British,  but  that  of  Cairo,  for  this  queen  belongs  to 
Egypt.  By  the  way,  I  have  been  told  that  you  are 
'delicate  in  the  lungs.  How  is  your  health  now? 
Our  cold  winds  are  very  trying.  Quite  good  ?  Ah, 
that  is  excellent !  I  suppose  that  you  have  no  more 
articles  that  you  can  show  me?" 

"I  have  nothing  more  except  a  mummied  hand, 
which  I  found  in  the  basket  with  the  jewels.  The 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         31 

two  rings  off  it  lie  there.  Doubtless  it  was  removed 
to  get  at  that  bracelet.  I  suppose  you  will  not  mind 
my  keeping  the  hand — " 

"Of  the  beloved  of  Smith,"  interrupted  the 
Director  drolly.  "No,  I  suppose  not,  though  for 
my  part  I  should  prefer  one  that  was  not  quite  so 
old.  Still,  perhaps  you  will  not  mind  my  seeing  it. 
That  pocket  of  yours  still  looks  a  little  bulky;  I 
thought  that  it  contained  books !" 

Smith  produced  a  cigar-box;  in  it  was  the  hand 
wrapped  in  cotton  wool. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Director,  "a  pretty,  well-bred 
hand.  No  doubt  this  Ma-Mee  was  the  real  heiress 
to  the  throne,  as  she  describes  herself.  The  Pharaoh 
was  somebody  of  inferior  birth,  half-brother — she 
is  called  'Royal  Sister/  you  remember — son  of  one 
of  the  Pharaoh's  slave-women,  perhaps.  Odd  that 
she  never  mentioned  him  in  the  tomb.  It  looks  as 
though  they  didn't  get  on  in  life,  and  that  she  was 
determined  to  have  done  with  him  in  death.  Those 
were  the  rings  upon  that  hand,  were  they  not?" 

He  replaced  them  on  the  fingers,  then  took  off  one, 
a  royal  signet  in  a  cartouche,  and  read  the  inscrip- 
tion on  the  other :  "  'Bes  Ank,  Ank  Bes/  'Bes  the 
Living,  the  Living  Bes/ 

"Your  Ma-Mee  had  some  human  vanity  about 
her,"  he  addedx  "Bes,  among  other  things,  as  you 
know,  was  the  god  of  beauty  and  of  the  adornments 
of  women.  She  wore  that  ring  that  she  might  re- 
main beautiful,  and  that  her  dresses  might  always 
fit,  and  her  rouge  never  cake  when  she  was  dancing 
before  the  gods.  Also  it  fixes  her  period  pretty 


32        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

closely,  but  then  so  do  other  things.  It  seems  a  pity 
to  rob  Ma-Mee  of  her  pet  ring,  does  it  not?  The 
royal  signet  will  be  enough  for  us." 

With  a  little  bow  he  gave  the  hand  back  to  Smith, 
leaving  the  Bes  ring  on  the  finger  that  had  worn  it 
for  more  than  three  thousand  years.  At  least, 
Smith  was  so  sure  it  was  the  Bes  ring  that  at  the 
time  he  did  not  look  at  it  again. 

Then  they  parted,  Smith  promising  to  return  upon 
the  morrow,  which,  owing  to  events  to  be  described, 
he  did  not  do. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Master  to  himself,  as  the  door 
closed  behind  his  visitor.  "He's  in  a  hurry  to  be 
gone.  He  has  fear  lest  I  should  change  my  mind 
about  that  ring.  Also  there  is  the  bronze.  Monsieur 
Smith  was  ruse  there.  It  is  worth  a  thousand 
pounds,  that  bronze.  Yet  I  do  not  believe  he  was 
thinking  of  the  money.  I  believe  he  is  in  love  with 
that  Ma-Mee  and  wants  to  keep  her  picture.  Mon 
Dieu!  A  well-established  affection.  At  least  he  is 
what  the  English  call  an  odd  fish,  one  whom  I  could 
never  make  out,  and  of  whom  no  one  seems  to  know 
anything.  Still,  honest,  I  am  sure — quite  honest. 
Why,  he  might  have  kept  every  one  of  those  jewels 
and  no  one  have  been  the  wiser.  And  what  things ! 
What  a  find!  del!  what  a  find!  There  has  been 
nothing  like  it  for  years.  Benedictions  on  the  head 
of  Odd-fish  Smith!" 

Then  he  collected  the  precious  objects,  thrust 
them  into  an  inner  compartment  of  his  safe,  which 
he  locked  and  double-locked,  and,  as  it  was  nearly 
five  o'clock,  departed  from  the  Museum  to  his  pri- 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         33 

vate  residence  in  the  grounds,  there  to  study  Smith's 
copies  and  photographs,  and  to  tell  some  friends  of 
the  great  things  that  had  happened. 

When  Smith  found  himself  outside  the  sacred 
door,  and  had  presented  its  venerable  guardian  with 
a  baksheesh  of  five  piastres,  he  walked  a  few  paces  to 
the  right  and  paused  a  while  to  watch  some  native 
labourers  who  were  dragging  a  huge  sarcophagus 
upon  an  improvised  tramway.  As  they  dragged 
they  sang  an  echoing  rhythmic  song,  whereof  each 
line  ended  with  an  invocation  to  Allah. 

Just  so,  reflected  Smith,  had  their  forefathers  sung 
when,  millenniums  ago,  they  dragged  that  very 
sarcophagus  from  the  quarries  to  the  Nile,  and  from 
the  Nile  to  the  tomb  whence  it  reappeared  to-day, 
or  when  they  slid  the  casing  blocks  of  the  pyramids 
up  the  great  causeway  and  smooth  slope  of  sand, 
and  laid  them  in  their  dizzy  resting-places.  Only 
then  each  line  of  the  immemorial  chant  of  toil  ended 
with  an  invocation  to  Amen,  now  transformed  to 
Allah. 

The  East  may  change  its  masters  and  its 
gods,  but  its  customs  never  change,  and  if  to-day 
Allah  wore  the  feathers  of  Amen  one  wonders 
whether  the  worshippers  would  find  the  difference  so 
very  great. 

Thus  thought  Smith  as  he  hurried  away  from  the 
sarcophagus  and  those  blue-robed,  dark-skinned 
fellaheen,  down  the  long  gallery  that  is  filled  with  a 
thousand  sculptures.  For  a  moment  he  paused  be- 
fore the  wonderful  white  statue  of  Queen  Amen- 
artas,  then,  remembering  that  his  time  was  short, 


34        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

hastened  on  to  a  certain  room,  one  of  those  which 
opened  out  of  the  gallery. 

In  a  corner  of  this  room,  upon  the  wall,  amongst 
many  other  beautiful  objects,  stood  that  head  which 
Marietta  had  found,  whereof  in  past  years  the  cast 
had  fascinated  him  in  London.  Now  he  knew  whose 
head  it  was;  to  him  it  had  been  given  to  find  the 
tomb  of  her  who  had  sat  for  that  statue.  Her  very 
hand  was  in  his  pocket — yes,  the  hand  that  had 
touched  yonder  marble,  pointing  out  its  defects  to 
the  sculptor,  or  perhaps  swearing  that  he  flattered 
her.  Smith  wondered  who  that  sculptor  was ;  surely 
he  must  have  been  a  happy  man.  Also  he  wondered 
whether  the  statuette  was  also  this  master's  work. 
He  thought  so,  but  he  wished  to  make  sure. 

Near  to  the  end  of  the  room  he  stopped  and 
looked  about  him  like  a  thief.  He  was  alone  in  the 
place;  not  a  single  student  or  tourist  could  be  seen, 
and  its  guardian  was  somewhere  else.  He  drew  out 
the  box  that  contained  the  hand.  From  the  hand 
he  slipped  the  ring  which  the  Director-General  had 
left  there  as  a  gift  to  himself.  He  would  much  have 
preferred  the  other  with  the  signet,  but  how  could 
he  say  so,  especially  after  the  episode  of  the 
statuette. 

Replacing  the  hand  in  his  pocket  without  looking 
at  the  ring1 — for  his  eyes  were  watching  to  see 
whether  he  was  observed — he  set  it  upon  his  little 
finger,  which  it  exactly  fitted.  (Ma-Mee  had  worn 
both  of  them  upon  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand, 
the  Bes  ring  as  a  guard  to  the  signet. )  He  had  the 
fancy  to  approach  the  effigy  of  Ma-Mee  wearing  a 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         35 

ring  which  she  had  worn  and  that  came  straight 
from  her  finger  to  his  own. 

Smith  found  the  head  in  its  accustomed  place. 
Weeks  had  gone  by  since  he  looked  upon  it,  and 
now,  to  his  eyes,  it  had  grown  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  and  its  smile  was  more  mystical  and  laving. 
He  drew  out  the  statuette  and  began  to  compare 
them  point  by  point.  Oh,  no  doubt  was  possible! 
Both  were  likenesses  of  the  same  woman,  though  the 
statuette  might  have  been  executed  two  or  three 
years  later  than  the  statue.  To  him  the  face  of  it 
looked  a  little  older  and  more  spiritual.  Perhaps 
illness,  or  some  premonition  of  her  end  had  then 
thrown  its  shadow  on  the  queen.  He  compared  and 
compared.  He  made  some  rough  measurements  and 
sketches  in  his  pocket-book,  and  set  himself  to  work 
out  a  canon  of  proportions. 

So  hard  and  earnestly  did  he  work,  so  lost  was 
his  mind  that  he  never  heard  the  accustomed  warn- 
ing sound  which  announces  that  the  Museum  is 
about  to  close.  Hidden  behind  an  altar  as  he  was, 
in  his  distant,  shadowed  corner,  the  guardian  of  the 
room  never  saw  him  as  he  cast  a  last  perfunctory 
glance  about  the  place  before  departing  till  the 
Saturday  morning ;  for  the  morrow  was  Friday,  the 
Mohammedan  Sabbath,  on  which  the  Museum  re- 
mains shut,  and  he  would  not  be  called  upon  to 
attend.  So  he  went.  Everybody  went.  The  great 
doors  clanged,  were  locked  and  bolted,  and,  save  for 
a  watchman  outside,  no  one  was  left  in  all  that  vast 
place  except  Smith  in  his  corner,  engaged  in  sketch- 
ing and  in  measurements. 


36        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

The  difficulty  of  seeing,  owing  to  the  increase  of 
shadow,  first  called  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  time 
was  slipping  away.  He  glanced  at  his  watch  and 
saw  that  it  was  ten  minutes  to  the  hour. 

"Soon  be  time  to  go,"  he  thought  to  himself,  and 
resumed  his  work. 

How  strangely  silent  the  place  seemed!  Not  a 
footstep  to  be  heard  or  the  sound  of  a  human  voice. 
He  looked  at  his  watch  again,  and  saw  that  it  was 
six  o'clock,  not  five,  or  so  the  thing  said.  But  that 
was  impossible,  for  the  Museum  shut  at  five;  evi- 
dently the  desert  sand  had  got  into  the  works.  The 
room  in  which  he  stood  was.  that  known  as  Room  I, 
and  he  had  noticed  that  its  Arab  custodian  often 
frequented  Room  K  or  the  gallery  outside.  He 
would  find  him  and  ask  what  was  the  real  time. 

Passing  round  the  effigy  of  the  wonderful  Hathor 
cow,  perhaps  the  finest  example  of  an  ancient  sculp- 
ture of  a  beast  in  the  whole  world,  Smith  came  to 
the  doorway  and  looked  up  and  down  the  gallery. 
Not  a  soul  to  be  seen.  He  ran  to  Room  K,  to  Room 
H,  and  others.  Still  not  a  soul  to  be  seen.  Then  he 
made  his  way  as  fast  as  he  could  go  to  the  great 
entrance.  The  doors  were  locked  and  bolted. 

"Watch  must  be  right  after  all.  I'm  shut  in,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "However,  there's  sure  to  be  some- 
one about  somewhere.  Probably  the  salle  des  ventes 
is  still  open.  Shops  don't  shut  till  they  are  obliged." 

Thither  he  went,  to  find  its  door  as  firmly  closed 
as  a  door  can  be.  He  knocked  on  it,  but  a  sepulchral 
echo  was  the  only  answer. 

"I  know/'  he  reflected.     "The  Director  must  still 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         37 

be  in  his  room.  It  will  take  him  a  long  while  to 
examine  all  that  jewellery  and  put  it  away." 

So  for  the  room  he  headed,  and,  after  losing  his 
path  twice,  found  it  by  help  of  the  sarcophagus  that 
the  Arabs  had  been  dragging,  which  no\v  stood  as 
deserted  as  it  had  done  in  the  tomb,  a  lonesome  and 
impressive  object  in  the  gathering  shadows.  The 
Director's  door  was  shut,  and  again  his  knockings 
produced  nothing  but  an  echo.  He  started  on  a 
tour  round  the  Museum,  and,  having  searched  the 
ground  floors,  ascended  to  the  upper  galleries  by  the 
great  stairway. 

Presently  he  found  himself  in  that  devoted  to  the 
royal  mummies,  and,  being  tired,  rested  there  a 
while.  Opposite  to  him,  in  a  glass  case  in  the  middle 
of  the  gallery,  reposed  Rameses  II.  Near  to,  on 
shelves  in  a  side  case,  were  Rameses'  son,  Meneptah, 
and  above,  his  son,  Seti  II.,  while  in  other  cases  were 
the  mortal  remains  of  many  more  of  the  royalties 
of  Egypt.  He  looked  at  the  proud  face  of  Rameses 
and  at  the  little  fringe  of  white  locks  turned  yellow 
by  the  embalmer's  spices,  also  at  the  raised  left  arm. 
He  remembered  how  the  Director  had  told  him  that 
when  they  were  unrolling  this  mighty  monarch  they 
went  away  to  lunch,  and  that  presently  the  man 
who  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the  body  rushed 
into  the  room  with  his  hair  on  end,  and  said 
that  the  dead  king  had  lifted  his  arm  and  pointed  at 
him. 

Back  they  went,  and  there,  true  enough,  was  the 
arm  lifted;  nor  were  they  ever  able  to  get  it  quite 
into  its  place  again.  The  explanation  given  was  that 


38         SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

the  warmth  of  the  sun  had  contracted  the  withered 
muscles,  a  very  natural  and  correct  explanation. 

Still,  Smith  wished  that  he  had  not  recollected 
the  story  just  at  this  moment,  especially  as  the  arm 
seemed  to  move  while  he  contemplated  it — a  very 
little,  but  still  to  move. 

He  turned  round  and  gazed  at  Meneptah,  whose 
hollow  eyes  stared  at  him  from  between  the  wrap- 
pings carelessly  thrown  across  the  parchment-like 
and  ashen  face.  There,  probably,  lay  the  counte- 
nance that  had  frowned  on  Moses.  There  was  the 
heart  which  God  had  hardened.  Well,  it  was  hard 
enough  now,  for  the  doctors  said  he  died  of  ossifi- 
cation of  the  arteries,  and  that  the  vessels  of  the 
heart  were  full  of  lime ! 

Smith  stood  upon  a  chair  and  peeped  at  Seti  II. 
above.  His  weaker  countenance  was  very  peaceful, 
but  it  seemed  to  wear  an  air  of  reproach.  In  getting 
down  Smith  managed  to  upset  the  heavy  chair.  The 
noise  it  made  was  terrific.  He  would  not  have 
thought  it  possible  that  the  fall  of  such  an  article 
could  produce  so  much  sound.  Satisfied  with  his 
inspection  of  these  particular  kings,  who  somehow 
looked  quite  different  now  from  what  they  had  ever 
done  before — more  real  and  imminent,  so  to  speak — 
he  renewed  his  search  for  a  living  man. 

On  he  went,  mummies  to  his  right,  mummies  to 
his  left,  of  every  style  and  period,  till  he  began  to 
feel  as  though  he  never  wished  to  see  another  dried 
remnant  of  mortality.  He  peeped  into  the  room 
where  lay  the  relics  of  louiya  and  Touiyou,  the 
father  and  mother  of  the  great  Queen  Taia.  Cloths 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         39 

had  been  drawn  over  these,  and  really  they  looked 
worse  and  more  suggestive  thus  draped  than  in  their 
frigid  and  unadorned  blackness.  He  came  to  the 
coffins  of  the  priest-kings  of  the  twentieth  dynasty, 
formidable  painted  coffins  with  human  faces.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  vast  number  of  these  priest-kings, 
but  perhaps  they  were  better  than  the  gold  masks  of 
the  great  Ptolemaic  ladies  which  glinted  at  him 
through  the  gathering  gloom. 

Really,  he  had  seen  enough  of  the  upper  floors. 
The  statues  downstairs  were  better  than  all  these 
dead,  although  it  was  true  that,  according  to  the 
Egyptian  faith,  every  one  of  those  statues  was 
haunted  eternally  by  the  Ka,  or  Double,  of  the  per- 
son whom  it  represented.  He  descended  the  great 
stairway.  Was  it  fancy,  or  did  something  run  across 
the  bottom  step  in  front  of  him — an  animal  of  some 
kind,  followed  by  a  swift-moving  and  indefinite 
shadow?  If  so,  it  must  have  been  the  Museum  cat 
hunting  a  Museum  mouse.  Only  then  what  on 
earth  was  that  very  peculiar  and  unpleasant  shadow  ? 

He  called,  "Puss !  puss !  puss !"  for  he  would  have 
been  quite  glad  of  its  company;  but  there  came  no 
friendly  "miau"  in  response.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
the  Ka  of  a  cat  and  the  shadow  was — oh!  never 
mind  what.  The  Egyptians  worshipped  cats,  and 
there  were  plenty  of  their  mummies  about  on  the 
shelves.  But  the  shadow ! 

Once  he  shouted  in  the  hope  of  attracting  atten- 
tion, for  there  were  no  windows  to  which  he  could 
climb.  He  did  not  repeat  the  experiment,  for  it 
seemed  as  though  a  thousand  voices  were  answering 


40        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

him  from  every  corner  and  roof  of  the  gigantic 
edifice. 

Well,  he  must  face  the  thing  out.  He  was  shut 
in  a  museum,  and  the  question  was  in  what  part  of 
it  he  should  camp  for  the  night.  Moreover,  as  it 
was  growing  rapidly  dark,  the  problem  must  be 
solved  at  once.  He  thought  with  affection  of  the 
lavatory,  where,  before  going  to  see  the  Director, 
only  that  afternoon  he  had  washed  his  hands  with 
the  assistance  of  a  kindly  Arab  who  watched  the 
door  and  gracefully  accepted  a  piastre.  But  there 
was  no  Arab  there  now,  and  the  door,  like  every 
other  in  this  confounded  place,  was  locked.  He 
marched  on  to  the  entrance. 

Here,  opposite  to  each  other,  stood  the  red  sarco- 
phagi of  the  great  Queen  Hatshepu  and  her  brother 
and  husband,  Thotmes  III.  He  looked  at  them. 
Why  should  not  one  of  these  afford  him  a  night's 
lodging?  They  were  deep  and  quiet,  and  would  fit 
the  human  frame  very  nicely.  For  a  while  Smith 
wondered  which  of  these  monarchs  would  be  the 
more  likely  to  take  offence  at  such  a  use  of  a  private 
sarcophagus,  and,  acting  on  general  principles,  con- 
cluded that  he  would  rather  throw  himself  on  the 
mercy  of  the  lady. 

Already  one  of  his  legs  was  over  the  edge  of  that 
solemn  coffer,  and  he  was  squeezing  his  body  be- 
neath the  massive  lid  that  was  propped  above  it  on 
blocks  of  wood,  when  he  remembered  a  little,  naked, 
withered  thing  with  long  hair  that  he  had  seen  in  a 
side  chamber  of  the  tomb  of  Amenhotep  I1J.  in  the 
Valley  of  Kings  at  Thebes.  This  caricature  of 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         41 

humanity  many  thought,  and  he  agreed  with  them, 
to  be  the  actual  body  of  the  mighty  Hatshepu  as  it 
appeared  after  the  robbers  had  done  with  it. 

Supposing  now,  that  when  he  was  lying  at  the 
bottom  of  that  sarcophagus,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the 
just,  this  little  personage  should  peep  over  its  edge 
and  ask  him  what  he  was  doing  there!  Of  course 
the  idea  was  absurd;  he  was  tired,  and  his  nerves 
were  a  little  shaken.  Still,  the  fact  remained  that 
for  centuries  the  hallowed  dust  of  Queen  Hatshepu 
had  slept  where  he,  a  modern  man,  was  proposing  to 
sleep. 

He  scrambled  down  from  the  sarcophagus  and 
looked  round  him  in  despair.  Opposite  to  the  main 
entrance  was  the  huge  central  hall  of  the  Museum. 
Now  the  cement  roof  of  this  hall  had,  he  knew,  gone 
wrong,  with  the  result  that  very  extensive  repairs 
(had  become  necessary.  So  extensive  were  they,  in- 
deed, that  the  Director-General  had  informed  him 
that  they  would  take  several  years  to  complete. 
Therefore  this  hall  was  boarded  up,  only  a  little 
doorway  being  left  by  which  the  workmen  could 
enter.  Certain  statues,  of  Seti  II.  and  others,  too 
large  to  be  moved,  were  also  roughly  boarded  over, 
as  were  some  great  funeral  boats  on  either  side  of 
the  entrance.  The  rest  of  the  place,  which  might  be 
two  hundred  feet  long  with  a  proportionate  breadth, 
was  empty  save  for  the  colossi  of  Amenhotep  III. 
and  his  queen  Taia  that  stood  beneath  the  gallery  at 
its  farther  end. 

It  was  an  appalling  place  in  which  to  sleep,  but 
better,  reflected  Smith,  than  a  sarcophagus  or  those 


42         SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

mummy  chambers.  If,  for  instance,  he  could  creep 
behind  the  deal  boards  that  enclosed  one  of  the 
funeral  boats  he  would  be  quite  comfortable  there. 
Lifting  the  curtain,  he  slipped  into  the  hall,  where 
the  gloom  of  evening  had  already  settled.  Only  the 
skylights  and  the  outline  of  the  towering  colossi  at 
the  far  end  remained  visible.  Close  to  him  were  the 
two  funeral  boats  which  he  had  noted  when  he 
looked  into  the  hall  earlier  on  that  day,  standing  at 
the  head  of  a  flight  of  steps  which  led  to  the  sunk 
floor  of  the  centre.  He  groped  his  way  to  that  on 
the  right.  As  he  expected,  the  projecting  planks 
were  not  quite  joined  at  the  bow.  He  crept  in 
between  them  and  the  boat  and  laid  himself  down. 

Presumably,  being  altogether  tired  out,  Smith  did 
ultimately  fall  asleep,  for  how  long  he  never  knew. 
At  any  rate,  it  is  certain  that,  if  so,  he  woke  up 
again.  He  could  not  tell  the  time,  because  his  watch 
was  not  a  repeater,  and  the  place  was  as  black  as  the 
pit.  He  had  some  matches  in  his  pocket,  and  might 
have  struck  one  and  even  have  lit  his  pipe.  To  his 
credit  be  it  said,  however,  he  remembered  that  he 
was  the  sole  tenant  of  one  of  the  most  valuable 
museums  in  the  world,  and  his  responsibilities  with 
reference  to  fire.  So  he  refrained  from  striking  that 
match  under  the  keel  of  a  boat  which  had  become 
very  dry  in  the  course  of  five  thousand  years. 

Smith  found  himself  very  wide  awake  indeed. 
Never  in  all  his  life  did  he  remember  being  more  so, 
not  even  in  the  hour  of  its  great  catastrophe,  or 
when  his  godfather,  Ebenezer,  after  much  hesitation, 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         43 

had  promised  him  a  clerkship  in  the  bank  of  which 
he  was  a  director.  His  nerves  seemed  strung  tight 
as  harp-strings,  and  his  every  sense  was  painfully 
acute.  Thus  he  could  even  smell  the  odour  of 
mummies  that  floated  down  from  the  upper  galleries 
and  the  earthy  scent  of  the  boat  which  had  been 
buried  for  thousands  of  years  in  sand  at  the  foot  of 
the  pyramid  of  one  of  the  fifth  dynasty  kings. 

Moreover,  he  could  hear  all  sorts  of  strange 
sounds,  faint  and  far-away  sounds  which  at  first  he 
thought  must  emanate  from  Cairo  without.  Soon, 
however,  he  grew  sure  that  their  origin  was  more 
local.  Doubtless  the  cement  work  and  the  cases  in 
the  galleries  were  cracking  audibly,  as  is  the  un- 
pleasant habit  of  such  things  at  night. 

Yet  why  should  these  common  manifestations  be 
so  universal  and  affect  him  so  strangely?  Really, 
it  seemed  as  though  people  were  stirring  all  about 
him.  More,  he  could  have  sworn  that  the  great 
funeral  boat  beneath  which  he  lay  had  become  re- 
peopled  with  the  crew  that  once  it  bore. 

He  heard  them  at  their  business  above  him. 
There  were  trampings  and  a  sound  as  though  some- 
thing heavy  were  being  laid  on  the  deck,  such,  for 
instance,  as  must  have  been  made  when  the  mummy 
of  Pharaoh  was  set  there  for  its  last  journey  to  the 
western  bank  of  the  Nile.  Yes,  and  now  he  could 
have  sworn  again  that  the  priestly  crew  were  getting 
out  the  oars. 

Smith  began  to  meditate  flight  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  that  place  when  something  occurred 
which  determined  him  to  stop  where  he  was. 


44        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

The  huge  hall  was  growing  light,  but  not,  as  at 
first  he  hoped,  with  the  rays  of  dawn.  This  light 
was  pale  and  ghostly,  though  very  penetrating.  Also 
it  had  a  blue  tinge,  unlike  any  other  he  had  ever 
seen.  At  first  it  arose  in  a  kind  of  fan  or  fountain 
at  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  illumining  the  steps  there 
and  the  two  noble  colossi  which  sat  above. 

But  what  was  this  that  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
steps,  radiating  glory?  By  heavens!  it  was  Osiris 
himself  or  the  image  of  Osiris,  god  of  the  Dead,  the 
Egyptian  saviour  of  the  world ! 

There  he  stood,  in  his  mummy-cloths,  wearing  the 
feathered  crown,  and  holding  in  his  hands,  which 
projected  from  an  opening  in  the  wrappings,  the 
crook  and  the  scourge  of  power.  Was  he  alive,  or 
was  he  dead?  Smith  could  not  tell,  since  he  never 
moved,  only  stood  there,  splendid  and  fearful,  his 
calm,  benignant  face  staring  into  nothingness. 

Smith  became  aware  that  the  darkness  between 
him  and  the  vision  of  this  god  was  peopled;  that  a 
great  congregation  was  gathering,  or  had  gathered 
there.  The  blue  light  began  to  grow ;  long  tongues 
of  it  shot  forward,  which  joined  themselves  together, 
illumining  all  that  huge  hall. 

Now,  too,  he  saw  the  congregation.  Before  him1, 
rank  upon  rank  of  them,  stood  the  kings  and  queens 
of  Egypt.  As  though  at  a  given  signal,  they  bowed 
themselves  to  the  Osiris,  and  ere  the  tinkling  of 
their  ornaments  had  died  away,  lo!  Osiris  was  gone. 
But  in  his  place  stood  another,  Isis,  the  Mother  of 
Mystery,  her  deep  eyes  looking  forth  from  beneath 
the  jewelled  vulture-cap.  Again  the  congregation 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS        45 

bowed,  and,  lo!  she  was  gone.  But  in  her  place 
stood  yet  another,  a  radiant,  lovely  being,  who  held 
in  her  hand  the  Sign  of  Life,  and  wore  upon  her  head 
the  symbol  of  the  shining  disc — Hathor,  Goddess 
of  Love.  A  third  time  the  congregation  bowed,  and 
she,  too,  was  gone ;  nor  did  any  other  appear  in  her 
place. 

The  Pharaohs  and  their  queens  began  to  move 
about  and  speak  to  each  other;  their  voices  came  to 
his  ears  in  one  low,  sweet  murmur. 

In  his  amaze  Smith  had  forgotten  fear.  From 
his  hiding-place  he  watched  them  intently.  Some 
of  them  he  knew  by  their  faces.  There,  for  instance, 
was  the  long-necked  Khu-en-aten,  talking  somewhat 
angrily  to  the  imperial  Rameses  II.  Smith  could 
understand  what  he  said,  for  this  power  seemed  to 
have  been  given  to  him.  He  was  complaining  in  a 
high,  weak  voice  that  on  this,  the  one  night  of  the 
year  when  they  might  meet,  the  gods,  or  the  magic 
images  of  the  gods  who  were  put  up  for  them  to 
worship,  should  not  include  his  god,  symbolized 
by  the  "Aten,"  or  the  sun's  disc. 

"I  have  heard  of  your  Majesty's  god,"  replied 
Rameses;  "the  priests  used  to  tell  me  of  him, 
also  that  he  did  not  last  long  after  your  Majesty 
flew  to  heaven.  The  Fathers  of  Amen  gave  you  a 
bad  name;  they  called  you  'the  heretic'  and  ham- 
mered out  your  cartouches.  They  were  quite 
rare  in  my  time.  Oh,  do  not  let  your  Majesty  be 
angry!  So  many  of  us  have  been  heretics.  My 
grandson,  Seti,  there" — and  he  pointed  to  a  mild, 
thoughtful-faced  man — "for  example.  I  am  told 


46        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

that  he  really  worshipped  the  god  of  those  Hebrew 
slaves  whom  I  used  to  press  to  build  my  cities. 
Look  at  that  lady  with  him.  Beautiful,  isn't  she? 
Observe  her  large,  violet  eyes!  Well,  she  was  the 
one  who  did  the  mischief,  a  Hebrew  herself.  At 
least,  they  tell  me  so/' 

"I  will  talk  with  him,"  answered  Khu-en-aten. 
"It  is  more  than  possible  that  we  may  agree  on 
certain  points.  Meanwhile,  let  me  explain  to  your 
Majesty " 

"Oh,  I  pray  you,  not  now.    There  is  my  wife." 

"Your  wife?"  said  Khu-en-aten,  drawing  himself 
up.  "Which  wife?  I  am  told  that  your  Majesty 
had  many  and  left  a  large  family;  indeed,  I  see 
some  hundreds  of  them  here  to-night.  Now,  I — 
but  let  me  introduce  Nefertiti  to  your  Majesty.  I 
may  explain  that  she  was  my  only  wife." 

"So  I  have  understood.  Your  Majesty  was  rather 
an  invalid,  were  you  not?  Of  course,  in  those 
circumstances,  one  prefers  the  nurse  whom,  one 
can  trust.  Oh,  pray,  no  offence!  Nefertari,  my 
love — oh,  I  beg  pardon ! — Astnef ert — Nefertari  has 
gone  to  speak  to  some  of  her  children — let  me 
introduce  you  to  your  predecessor,  the  Queen 
Nefertiti,  wife  of  Amenhotep  IV. — I  mean  Khu- 
en-aten  (he  changed  his  name,  you  know,  because 
half  of  it  was  that  of  the  father  of  the  gods).  She 
is  interested  in  the  question  of  plural  marriage. 
Good-bye !  I  wish  to  have  a  word  with  my  grand- 
father, Rameses  I.  He  was  fond  of  me  as  a  little 
boy." 

At  this  moment  Smith's  interest  in  that  queer 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS        47 

conversation  died  away,  for  of  a  sudden  he  beheld 
none  other  than  the  queen  of  his  dreams,  Ma-Mee. 
Oh !  there  she  stood,  without  a  doubt,  only  ten  times 
more  beautiful  than  he  had  ever  pictured  her. 
She  was  tall  and  somewhat  fair-complexioned,  with 
slumbrous,  dark  eyes,  and  on  her  face  gleamed  the 
mystic  smile  he  loved.  She  wore  a  robe  of  simple 
white  and  a  purple-broidered  apron,  a  crown  of 
golden  urcsi  with  turquoise  eyes  was  set  upon  her 
dark  hair  as  in  her  statue,  and  on  her  breast  and 
arms  were  the  very  necklace  and  bracelets  that  he 
had  taken  from  her  tomb.  She  appeared  to  be 
somewhat  moody,  or  rather  thoughtful,  for  she 
leaned  by  herself  against  a  balustrade,  watching  the 
throng  without  much  interest. 

Presently  a  Pharaoh,  a  black-browed,  vigorous 
man  with  thick  lips,  drew  near. 

"I  greet  your  Majesty,"  he  said. 

She  started,  and  answered: 

"Oh,  it  is  you!  I  make  my  obeisance  to  your 
Majesty/'  and  she  curtsied  to  him,  humbly  enough, 
but  with  a  suggestion  of  mockery  in  her  move- 
ments. 

"Well,  you  do  not  seem  to  have  been  very  anxious 
to  find  me,  Ma-Mee,  which,  considering  that  we  meet 
so  seldom " 

"I  saw  that  your  Majesty  was  engaged  with  my 
sister  queens,"  she  interrupted,  in  a  rich,  low  voice, 
"and  with  some  other  ladies  in  the  gallery  there, 
whose  faces  I  seem  to  remember,  but  who  I  think 
were  not  queens.  Unless,  indeed,  you  married  them 
after  I  was  drawn  away." 


48        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

"One  must  talk  to  one's  relations,"  replied  the 
Pharaoh. 

"Quite  so.  But,  you  see,  I  have  no  relations — at 
least,  none  whom  I  know  well.  My  parents,  you  will 
remember,  died  when  I  was  young,  leaving  me 
Egypt's  heiress,  and  they  are  still  vexed  at  the  mar- 
riage which  I  made  on  the  advice  of  my  counsellors. 
But,  is  it  not  annoying?  I  have  lost  one  of  my  rings, 
that  which  had  the  god  Bes  on  it.  Some  dweller  on 
the  earth  must  be  wearing  it  to-day,  and  that  is  why 
I  cannot  get  it  back  from  him." 

"Him !  Why  'him'  ?  Hush ;  the  business  is  about 
to  begin." 

"What  business,  my  lord?" 

"Oh,  the  question  of  the  violation  of  our  tombs,  I 
believe." 

"Indeed!  That  is  a  large  subject,  and  not  a  very 
profitable  one,  I  should  say.  Tell  me,  who  is  that?" 
And  she  pointed  to  a  lady  who  had  stepped  forward, 
a  very  splendid  person,  magnificently  arrayed. 

"Cleopatra  the  Greek,"  he  answered,  "the  last  of 
Egypt's  Sovereigns,  one  of  the  Ptolemys.  You  can 
always  know  her  by  that  Roman  who  walks  about 
after  her." 

"Which?"  asked  Ma-Mee.  "I  see  several— also 
other  men.  She  was  the  wretch  who  rolled  Egypt 
in  the  dirt  and  betrayed  her.  Oh,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  law  of  peace  by  which  we  must  abide  when  we 
meet  thus !" 

"You  mean  that  she  would  be  torn  to  shreds, 
Ma-Mee,  and  her  very  soul  scattered  like  the  limbs 
of  Osiris  ?  Well,  if  it  were  not  for  that  law  of  peace, 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS        49 

so  perhaps  would  many  of  us,  for  never  have  I 
heard  a  single  king  among  these  hundreds  speak 
altogether  well  of  those  who  went  before  or  followed 
after  him." 

"Especially  of  those  who  went  before  if  they 
happen  to  have  hammered  out  their  cartouches 
and  usurped  their  monuments,"  said  the  queen, 
dryly,  and  looking  him  in  the  eyes. 

At  this  home-thrust  the  Pharaoh  seemed  to  wince. 
Making  no  answer,  he  pointed  to  the  royal  woman 
who  had  mounted  the  steps  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

Queen  Cleopatra  lifted  her  hand  and  stood  thus 
for  a  while.  Very  splendid  she  was,  and  Smith, 
on  his  hands  and  knees  behind  the  boarding  of  the 
boat,  thanked  his  stars  that  alone  among  modern 
men  it  had  been  his  lot  to  look  upon  her  rich  and 
living  loveliness.  There  she  shone,  she  who  had 
changed  the  fortunes  of  the  world,  she  who-,  what- 
ever she  did  amiss,  at  least  had  known  how  to  die. 

Silence  fell  upon  that  glittering  galaxy  of  kings 
and  queens  and  upon  all  the  hundreds  of  their  off- 
spring, their  women,  and  their  great  officers  who 
crowded  the  double  tier  of  galleries  around  the  hall. 

"Royalties  of  Egypt,"  she  began,  in  a  sweet,  clear 
voice  which  penetrated  to  the  farthest  recesses  of 
the  place,  "I,  Cleopatra,  the  sixth  of  that  name  and 
the  last  monarch  who  ruled  over  the  Upper  and  the 
Lower  Lands  before  Egypt  became  a  home  of  slaves, 
have  a  word  to  say  to  your  Majesties,  who,  in  your 
mortal  days,  all  of  you  more  worthily  filled  the  throne 
on  which  once  I  sat.  I  do  not  speak  of  Egypt  and 
its  fate,  or  of  our  sins — whereof  mine  were  not  the 


50        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

least — that  brought  her  to  the  dust.  Those  sins  I 
and  others  expiate  elsewhere,  and  of  them,  from 
age  to  age,  we  hear  enough.  But  on  this  one  night 
of  the  year,  that  of  the  feast  of  him  whom  we  call 
Osiris,  but  whom  other  nations  have  known  and 
know  by  different  names,  it  is  given  to  us  once  more 
to  be  mortal  for  an  hour,  and,  though  we  be  but 
shadows,  to  renew  the  loves  and  hates  of  our  long- 
perished  flesh.  Here  for  an  hour  we  strut  in  our 
forgotten  pomp;  the  crowns  that  were  ours  still 
adorn  our  brows,  and  once  more  we  seem  to  listen 
to  our  people's  praise.  Our  hopes  are  the  hopes  of 
mortal  life,  our  foes  are  the  foes  we  feared,  our  gods 
grow  real  again,  and  our  lovers  whisper  in  our  ears. 
Moreover,  this  joy  is  given  to  us — to  see  each  other 
as  we  are,  to  know  as  the  gods  know,  and  therefore 
to  forgive,  even  where  we  despise  and  hate.  Now  I 
have  done,  and  I,  the  youngest  of  the  rulers  of  an- 
cient Egypt,  call  upon  him  who  was  the  first  of  her 
kings  to  take  my  place." 

She  bowed,  and  the  audience  bowed  back  to  her. 
Then  she  descended  the  steps  and  was  lost  in  the 
throng.  Where  she  had  been  appeared  an  old  man, 
simply-clad,  long-bearded,  wise-faced,  and  wearing 
on  his  grey  hair  no  crown  save  a  plain  band  of  gold, 
from  the  centre  of  which  rose  the  snake-headed 
urceus  crest. 

"Your  Majesties  who  came  after  me,"  said  the 
old  man,  "I  am  Menes,  the  first  of  the  accepted 
Pharaohs  of  Egypt,  although  many  of  those  who 
went  before  me  were  more  truly  kings  than  I.  Yet 
as  the  first  who  joined  the  Upper  and  the  Lower 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         51 

Lands,  and  took  the  royal  style  and  titles,  and  ruled 
as  well  as  I  could  rule,  it  is  given  to  me  to  talk  with 
you  for  a  while  this  night  whereon  our  spirits  are 
permitted  to  gather  from  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
uttermost  worlds  and  see  each  other  face  to  face. 
First,  in  darkness  and  in  secret,  let  us  speak  of  the 
mystery  of  the  gods  and  of  its  meanings.  Next,  in 
darkness  and  in  secret,  let  us  speak  of  the  mystery 
of  our  lives,  of  whence  they  come,  of  where  they 
tarry  by  the  road,  and  whither  they  go  at  last.  And 
afterwards,  let  us  speak  of  other  matters  face  to 
face  in  light  and  openness,  as  we  were  wont  to  do 
when  we  were  men.  Then  hence  to  Thebes,  there  to 
celebrate  our  yearly  festival.  Is  such  your  will  ?" 
"Such  is  our  will,"  they  answered. 

It  seemed  to  Smith  that  dense  darkness  fell  upon 
the  place,  and  with  it  a  silence  that  was  awful. 
For  a  time  that  he  could  not  reckon,  that  might  have 
been  years  or  might  have  been  moments,  he  sat 
there  in  the  utter  darkness  and  the  utter  silence. 

At  length  the  light  came  again,  first  as  a  blue 
spark,  then  in  upward  pouring  rays,  and  lastly 
pervading  all.  There  stood  Menes  on  the  steps, 
and  there  in  front  of  him  was  gathered  the  same 
royal  throng. 

"The  mysteries  are  finished,"  said  the  old  king. 
"Now,  if  any  have  aught  to  say,  let  it  be  said 
openly." 

A  young  man  dressed  in  the  robes  and  ornaments 
of  an  early  dynasty  came  forward  and  stood  upon 
the  steps  between  the  Pharaoh  Menes  and  all  those 


52        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

who  had  reigned  after  him.  His  face  seemed 
familiar  to  Smith,  as  was  the  side  lock  that  hung 
down  behind  his  right  ear  in  token  of  his  youth. 
Where  had  he  seen  him?  Ah,  he  remembered. 
Only  a  few  hours  ago  lying  in  one  of  the  cases  of 
the  Museum,  together  with  the  bones  of  the  Pharaoh 
Unas. 

"Your  Majesties,"  he  began,  "I  am  the  King 
Metesuphis.  The  matter  that  I  wish  to  lay  before 
you  is  that  of  the  violation  of  our  sepulchres  by 
those  men  who  now  live  upon  the  earth.  The  mortal 
•bodies  of  many  who  are  gathered  here  to-night 
lie  in  this  place  to  be  stared  at  and  mocked  by  the 
curious.  I  myself  am  one  of  them,  jawless,  broken, 
hideous  to  behold.  Yonder,  day  by  day,  must  my 
Ka  sit  watching  my  desecrated  flesh,  torn  from  the 
pyramid  that,  with  cost  and  labour,  I  raised  up 
to  be  an  eternal  house  wherein  I  might  hide  till 
the  hour  of  resurrection.  Others  of  us  lie  in  far 
lands.  Thus,  as  he  can  tell  you,  my  predecessor, 
Man-kau-ra,  he  who  built  the  third  of  the  great 
pyramids,  the  Pyramid  of  Her,  sleeps,  or  rather 
wakes  in  a  dark  city,  called  London,  across  the  seas, 
a  place  of  murk  where  no  sun  shines.  Others  have 
been  burnt  with  fire,  others  are  scattered  in  small 
dust.  The  ornaments  that  were  ours  are  stole  away 
and  sold  to  the  greedy;  our  sacred  writings  and  our 
symbols  are  their  jest.  Soon  there  will  not  be  one 
holy  grave  in  Egypt  that  remains  undefiled." 

"That  is  so/'  said  a  voice  from  the  company. 
"But  four  months  gone  the  'deep,  'deep  pit  was 
opened  that  I  had  dug  in  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramid 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         53 

of  Cephren,  who  begat  me  in  the  world.  There 
in  my  chamber  I  slept  alone,  two  handfuls  of  white 
bones,  since  when  I  died  they  did  not  preserve  the 
body  with  wrappings  and  with  spices.  Now  I  see 
those  bones  of  mine,  beside  which  my  Double  has 
watched  for  these  five  thousand  years,  hid  in  the 
blackness  of  a  great  ship  and  tossing  on  a  sea  that 
is  strewn  w,ith  ice." 

"It  is  so,"  echoed  a  hundred  other  voices. 

"Then,"  went  on  the  young  king,  turning  to 
Menes,  "I  ask  of  your  Majesty  whether  there  is  no 
means  whereby  we  may  be  avenged  on  those  who 
do  us  this  foul  wrong." 

"Let  him  who  has  wisdom  speak,"  said  the  old 
Pharaoh. 

A  man  of  middle  age,  short  in  stature  and  of 
a  thoughtful  brow,  who  held  in  his  hand  a  wand 
and  wore  the  feathers  and  insignia  of  the  heir  to 
the  throne  of  Egypt  and  of  a  high  priest  of  Amen, 
moved  to  the  steps.  Smith  knew  him  at  once  from 
his  statues.  He  was  Khaemuas,  son  of  Rameses 
the  Great,  the  mightiest  magician  that  ever  was  in 
Egypt,  who  of  his  own  will  withdrew  himself  from 
earth  before  the  time  came  that  he  should  sit  upon 
the  throne. 

"I  have  wisdom,  your  Majesties,  and  I  will 
answer,"  he  said.  "The  time  draws  on  when, 
in  the  land  of  Death  which  is  Life,  the  land  that  we 
call  Amenti,  it  will  be  given  to  us  to  lay  our  wrongs 
as  to  this  matter  before  Those  who  judge,  knowing 
that  they  will  be  avenged.  On  this  night  of  the  year 
also,  when  we  resume  the  shapes  we  were,  we  have 


54        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

certain  powers  of  vengeance,  or  rather  of  executing 
justice.  But  our  time  is  short,  and  there  is  much 
to  say  and  do  before  the  sun-god  Ra  arises  and 
we  depart  each  to  his  place.  Therefore  it  seems 
best  that  we  should  leave  these  wicked  ones  in  their 
wickedness  till  we  meet  them  face  to  face  beyond  the 
world." 

Smith,  who  had  been  following  the  words  of 
Khaemuas  with  the  closest  attention  and  considerable 
anxiety,  breathed  again,  thanking  Heaven  that  the 
engagements  of  these  departed  monarchs  were  so 
numerous  and  pressing.  Still,  as  a  matter  of 
precaution,  he  drew  the  cigar-box  which  contained 
Ma-Mee's  hand  from  his  pocket,  and  pushed  it  as 
far  away  from  him  as  he  could.  It  was  a  most 
unlucky  act.  Perhaps  the  cigar-box  grated  on  the 
floor,  or  perhaps  the  fact  of  his  touching  the  relic 
put  him  into  psychic  communication  with  all  these 
spirits.  At  any  rate,  he  became  aware  that  the 
eyes  of  that  dreadful  magician  were  fixed  upon  him, 
and  that  a  bone  had  a  better  chance  of  escaping 
the  search  of  a  Rontgen  ray  than  he  of  hiding  him- 
self from  their  baleful  glare. 

"As  it  happens,  however,"  went  on  Khaemuas, 
in  a  cold  voice,  "I  now  perceive  that  there  is  hidden 
in  this  place,  and  spying  on  us,  one  of  the  worst 
of  these  vile  thieves.  I  say  to  your  Majesties  that 
I  see  him  crouched  beneath  your  funeral  barge,  and 
that  he  has  with  him  at  this  moment  the  hand  of 
one  of  your  Majesties,  stolen  by  him  from  her  tomb 
at  Thebes." 

Now  every  queen  in  the  company  became  visibly 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         55 

agitated  (Smith,  who  was  watching  Ma-Mee,  saw 
her  hold  up  her  hands  and  look  at  them),  while  all 
the  Pharaohs  pointed  with  their  fingers  and  ex- 
claimed together,  in  a  voice  that  rolled  round  the 
hall  like  thunder: 

"Let  him  be  brought  forth  to  judgment !" 

Khaemuas  raised  his  wand  and,  holding  it  towards 
the  boat  where  Smith  was  hidden,  said : 

"Draw  near,  Vile  One,  bringing1  with  thee  that 
thou  hast  stolen." 

Smith  tried  hard  to  remain  where  he  was.  He 
sat  himself  down  and  set  his  heels  against  the  floor. 
As  the  reader  knows,  he  was  always  shy  and  retiring 
by  disposition,  and  never  had  these  weaknesses  op- 
pressed him  more  than  they  did  just  then.  When 
a  child  his  favourite  nightmare  had  been  that  the 
foreman  of  a  jury  was  in  the  act  of  proclaiming 
him  guilty  of  some  dreadful  but  unstated  crime. 
Now  he  understood  what  that  nightmare  fore- 
shadowed. He  was  about  to  be  convicted  in 
a  court  of  which  all  the  kings  and  queens  of  Egypt 
were  the  jury,  Menes  was  Chief  Justice,  and  the 
magician  Khaemuas  played  the  role  of  Attorney- 
General. 

In  vain  did  he  sit  down  and  hold  fast.  Some 
power  took  possession  of  him  which  forced  him  first 
to  stretch  out  his  arm  and  pick  up  the  cigar-box 
containing  the  hand  of  Ma-Mee,  and  next  drew  him 
from  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  deal  boards  that  were 
about  the  boat. 

Now  he  was  on  his  feet  and  walking  down  the 
flight  of  steps  opposite  to  those  on  which  Menes 


56        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

stood  far  away.  Now  he  was  among  all  that  throng 
of  ghosts,  which  parted  to  let  him  pass,  looking  at 
him  as  he  went  with  cold  and  wondering  eyes. 
They  were  very  majestic  ghosts;  the  ages  that  had 
gone  by  since  they  laid  down  their  sceptres  had  taken 
nothing  from  their  royal  dignity.  Moreover,  save 
one,  none  of  them  seemed  to  have  any  pity  for  his 
plight.  She  was  a  little  princess  who  stood  by  her 
mother,  that  same  little  princess  whose  mummy  he 
had  seen  and  pitied  in  the  Director's  room  with  a 
lotus  flower  thrust  beneath  her  bandages.  As  he 
passed  Smith  heard  her  say : 

"This  Vile  One  is  frightened.  Be  brave,  Vile 
Oner 

Smith  understood,  and  pride  came  to  his  a?d. 
He,  a  gentleman  of  the  modern  world,  would  not 
show  the  white  feather  before  a  crowd  of  ancient 
Egyptian  ghosts.  Turning  to  the  child,  he  smiled 
at  her,  then  drew  himself  to  his  full  height  and 
walked  on  quietly.  Here  it  may  be  stated  that  Smith 
was  a  tall  man,  still  comparatively  young,  and  very 
good-looking,  straight  and  spare  in  frame,  with 
dark,  pleasant  eyes  and  a  little  black  beard. 

"At  least  he  is  a  well-favoured  thief,"  said  one  of 
the  queens  to  another. 

"Yes,"  answered  she  who  had  been  addressed. 
"I  wonder  that  a  man  with  such  a  noble  air  should 
find  pleasure  in  disturbing  graves  and  stealing  the 
offerings  of  the  dead,"  words  that  gave  Smith  much 
cause  for  thought.  He  had  never  considered  the 
matter  in  this  light 

Now  he  came  to  the  place  where  Ma-Mee  stood, 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         57 

the  black-browed  Pharaoh  who  had  been  her  husband 
at  her  side.  On  his  left  hand  which  held  the  cigar- 
box  was  the  gold  Bes  ring,  and  that  box  he  felt 
constrained  to  carry  pressed  against  him  just  over 
his  heart. 

As  he  went  by  he  turned  his  head,  and  his  eyes 
met  those  of  Ma-Mee.  She  started  violently.  Then 
she  saw  the  ring  upon  his  hand  and  again  started 
still  more  violently. 

"What  ails  your  Majesty?"  asked  the  Pharaoh. 

"Oh,  naught,"  she  answered.  "Yet  does  this 
earth-dweller  remind  you  of  anyone?" 

"Yes,  he  does,"  answered  the  Pharaoh.  "He  re- 
minds me  very  much  of  that  accursed  sculptor  about 
whom  we  had  words." 

"Do  you  mean  a  certain  Horu,  the  Court  artist; 
he  who  worked  the  image  that  was  buried  with  me, 
and  whom  you  sent  to  carve  your  statues  in  the 
deserts  of  Kush,  until  he  died  of  fevers — or  was  it 
poison  ?" 

"Aye ;  Horu  and  no  other,  may  Set  take  and  keep 
him.!"  growled  the  Pharaoh. 

Then  Smith  passed  on  and  heard  no  more.  Now 
he  stood  before  the  venerable  Menes.  Some  instinct 
caused  him  to  bow  to  this  Pharaoh,  who  bowed  back 
to  him.  Then  he  turned  and  bowed  to  the  royal 
company,  and  they  also  bowed  back  to  him,  coldly, 
but  very  gravely  and  courteously. 

"Dweller  on  the  world  where  once  we  had  our 
place,  and  therefore  brother  of  us,  the  dead,"  began 
Menes,  "this  divine  priest  and  magician" — and  he 
pointed  to  Khaemuas — "declares  that  you  are  one 


58        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

of  those  who  foully  violate  our  sepulchres  and  dese- 
crate our  ashes.  He  declares,  moreover,  that  at 
this  very  moment  you  have  with  you  a  portion 
of  the  mortal  flesh  of  a  certain  Majesty  whose 
spirit  is  present  here.  Say,  now,  are  these  things 
true?" 

To  his  astonishment  Smith  found  that  he  had  not 
the  slightest  difficulty  in  answering  in  the  same 
sweet  tongue. 

"O  King,  they  are  true,  and  not  true.  Hear  me, 
rulers  of  Egypt.  It  is  true  that  I  have  searched  in 
your  graves,  because  my  heart  has  been  drawn 
towards  you,  and  I  would  learn  all  that  I  could  con- 
cerning you,  for  it  comes  to  me  now  that  once  I  was 
one  of  you — no  king,  indeed,  yet  perchance  of  the 
blood  of  kings.  Also — for  I  would  hide  nothing 
even  if  I  could — I  searched  for  one  tomb  above  all 
others." 

"Why,  O  man?"  asked  the  Judge. 

"Because  a  face  drew  me,  a  lovely  face  that  was 
cut  in  stone." 

Now  all  that  great  audience  turned  their  eyes 
towards  him  and  listened  as  though  his  words  moved 
them. 

"Did  you  find  that  holy  tomb?"  asked  Menes. 
"If  so,  what  did  you  find  therein?" 

"Aye,  Pharaoh,  and  in  it  I  found  these,"  and 
he  took  from  the  box  the  withered  hand,  from  his 
pocket  the  broken  bronze,  and  from  his  finger  the 
ring. 

"Also  I  found  other  things  which  I  delivered 
to  the  keeper  of  this  place,  articles  of  jewellery  that 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS        59 

I  seem  to  see  to-night  upon  one  who  is  present  here 
among  you." 

"Is  the  face  of  this  figure  the  face  you  sought?" 
asked  the  Judge. 

"It  is  the  lovely  face/'  he  answered. 

Menes  took  the  effigy  in  his  hand  and  read  the 
cartouche  that  was  engraved  beneath  its  breast. 

"If  there  be  here  among  us,"  he  said,  presently, 
"one  who  long  after  my  day  ruled  as  queen  in  Egypt, 
one  who  was  named  Ma-Me,  let  her  draw  near." 

Now  from  where  she  stood  glided  Ma-Mee  and 
took  her  place  opposite  to  Smith. 

"Say,  O  Queen,"  asked  Menes,  "do  you  know 
aught  of  this  matter?" 

"I  know  that  hand;  it  was  my  own  hand,"  she 
answered.  "I  know  that  ring;  it  was  my  ring. 
I  know  that  image  in  bronze;  it  was  my  image. 
Look  on  me  and  judge  for  yourselves  whether  this 
be  so.  A  certain  sculptor  fashioned  it,  the  son  of 
a  king's  son,  who  was  named  Horu,  the  first  of 
sculptors  and  the  head  artist  of  my  Court.  There, 
clad  in  strange  garments,  he  stands  before  you. 
Horu,  or  the  Double  of  Horu,  he  who  cut  the  image 
when  I  ruled  in  Egypt,  is  he  who  found  the  image 
and  the  man  who  stands  before  you ;  or,  mayhap,  his 
Double  cast  in  the  same  mould." 

The  Pharaoh  Menes  turned  to  the  magician 
Khaemuas  and  said: — 

"Are  these  things  so,  O  Seer?" 

"They  are  so,"  answered  Khaemuas.  "This  dwel- 
ler on  the  earth  is  he  who,  long  ago,  was  the  sculptor 
Horu.  But  what  shall  that  avail?  He,  once  more 


60        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

a  living  man,  is  a  violator  of  the  hallowed  dead. 
I  say,  therefore,  that  judgment  should  be  executed 
on  his  flesh,  so  that  when  the  light  comes  here 
to-morrow  he  himself  will  again  be  gathered  to  the 
dead." 

Menes  bent  his  head  upon  his  breast  and  pondered. 
Smith  said  nothing.  To  him  the  whole  play  was 
so  curious  that  he  had  no  wish  to  interfere  with  its 
development.  If  these  ghosts  wished  to  make  him 
of  their  number,  let  them  do  so.  He  had  no  ties 
on  earth,  and  now  when  he  knew  full  surely  that 
there  was  a  life  beyond  this  of  earth  he  was  quite 
prepared  to  explore  its  mysteries.  So  he  folded 
his  arms  upon  his  breast  and  awaited  the  sentence. 

But  Ma-Mee  did  not  wait.  She  raised  her  hand 
so  swiftly  that  the  bracelets  jingled  on  her  wrists, 
and  spoke  out  with  boldness. 

"Royal  Khaemuas,  prince  and  magician,"  she  said, 
"hearken  to  one  who,  like  you,  was  Egypt's  heir 
centuries  before  you  were  born,  one  also  who 
ruled  over  the  Two  Lands,  and  not  so  ill — which, 
Prince,  never  was  your  lot.  Answer  me!  Is  all 
wisdom  centred  in  your  breast  ?  Answer  me !  Do 
you  alone  know  the  mysteries  of  Life  and  Death? 
Answer  me!  Did  your  god  Amen  teach  you  that 
vengeance  went  before  mercy?  Answer  me!  Did 
he  teach  you  that  men  should  be  judged  unheard? 
That  they  should  be  hurried  by  violence  to  Osiris 
ere  their  time,  and  thereby  separated  from  the  dead 
ones  whom  they  loved  and  forced  to  return  to  live 
again  upon  this  evil  Earth? 

"Listen:    when  the  last  moon  was  near  her  full 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS        61 

my  spirit  sat  in  my  tomb  in  the  burying-place  of 
queens.  My  spirit  saw  this  man  enter  into  my  tomb, 
and  what  he  did  there.  With  bowed  head  he  looked 
upon  my  bones  that  a  thief  of  the  priesthood  of 
Amen  had  robbed  and  burnt  within  twenty  years 
of  their  burial,  in  which  he  himself  had  taken  part. 
And  what  did  this  man  with  those  bones,  he  who 
was  once  Horu?  I  tell  you  that  he  hid  them  away 
there  in  the  tomb  where  he  thought  they  could  not 
be  found  again.  Who,  then,  was  the  thief  and  the 
violator?  He  who  robbed  and  burnt  my  bones, 
or  he  who  buried  them  with  reverence?  Again, 
he  found  the  jewels  that  the  priest  of  your  brother- 
hood had  dropped  in  his  flight,  when  the  smoke  of 
the  burning  flesh  and  spices  overpowered  him,  and 
with  them  the  hand  which  that  wicked  one  had 
broken  off  from  the  body  of  my  Majesty.  What  did 
this  man  then?  He  took  the  jewels.  Would  you 
have  had  him  leave  them  to  be  stolen  by  some  peas- 
ant ?  And  the  hand  ?  I  tell  you  that  he  kissed  that 
poor  dead  hand  which  once  had  been  part  of  the  body 
of  my  Majesty,  and  that  now  he  treasures  it  as  a  holy 
relic.  My  spirit  saw  him  do  these  things  and  made 
report  thereof  to  me.  I  ask  you,  therefore,  Prince, 
I  ask  you  all,  Royalties  of  Egypt — whether  for  such 
deeds  this  man  should  die?" 

Now  Khaemuas,  the  advocate  of  vengeance, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  meaningly,  but 
the  congegation  of  kings  and  queens  thundered  an 
answer,  and  it  was: — - 

"Kof 

Ma-Mee  looked  to  Menes  to  give  judgment.    Be- 


62         SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

fore  he  could  speak  the  dark-browed  Pharaoh  who 
had  named  her  wife  strode  forward  and  addressed 
them. 

"Her  Majesty,  Heiress  of  Egypt,  Royal  Wife, 
Lady  of  the  Two  Lands,  has  spoken/'  he  cried. 
"Now  let  me  speak  who  was  the  husband  of  her 
Majesty.  Whether  this  man  was  once  Horu  the 
sculptor  I  know  not.  If  so  he  was  also  an  evil-doer 
who,  by  my  decree,  died  in  banishment  in  the  land 
of  Kush.  Whatever  be  the  truth  as  to  that  matter, 
he  admits  that  he  violated  the  tomb  of  her  Majesty 
and  stole  what  the  old  thieves  had  left.  Her  Majesty 
says  also — and  he  does  not  deny  it — that  he  dared 
to  kiss  her  hand,  and  for  a  man  to  kiss  the  hand  of 
a  wedded  Queen  of  Egypt  the  punishment  is  death. 
I  claim  that  this  man  should  die  to  the  World  before 
his  time,  that  in  a  day  to  come  again  he  may  live 
and  suffer  in  the  World.  Judge,  O  Menes." 
Menes  lifted  his  head  and  spoke,  saying: — 
"Repeat  to  me  the  law,  O  Pharaoh,  under  which 
a  living  man  must  die  for  the  kissing  of  a  dead  hand. 
In  my  day  and  in  that  of  those  who  went  before  me 
there  was  no  such  law  in  Egypt.  If  a  living  man, 
who  was  not  her  husband,  or  of  her  kin,  kissed  the 
living  hand  of  a  wedded  Queen  of  Egypt,  save  in 
ceremony,  then  perchance  he  might  be  called  upon  to 
die.  Perchance  for  such  a  reason  a  certain  Horu 
once  was  called  upon  to  die.  But  in  the  grave  there 
is  no  marriage,  and  therefore  even  if  he  had  found 
her  alive  within  the  tomb  and  kissed  her  hand,  or 
even  her  lips,  why  should  he  die  for  the  crime  of 
love? 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS        63 

"Hear  me,  all;  this  is  my  judgment  in  the  matter. 
Let  the  soul  of  that  priest  who  first  violated  the  tomb 
of  the  royal  Ma-Mee  be  hunted  down  and  given  to 
the  jaws  of  the  Destroyer,  that  he  may  know  the 
last  depths  of  Death,  if  so  the  gods  declare.  But 
let  this  man  go  from  among  us  unharmed,  since  what 
he  did  he  did  in  reverent  ignorance  and  because 
Hathor,  Goddess  of  Love,  guided  him  from  of  old. 
Love  rules  this  world  wherein  we  meet  to-night, 
with  all  the  worlds  whence  we  have  gathered  or 
whither  we  still  must  go.  Who  can  defy  its  power  ? 
Who  can  refuse  its  rites?  Now  hence  to  Thebes!" 

There  was  a  rushing  sound  as  of  a  thousand 
wings,  and  all  were  gone. 

No,  not  all,  since  Smith  yet  stood  before  the 
draped  colossi  and  the  empty  steps,  and  beside  him, 
glorious,  unearthly,  gleamed  the  vision  of  Ma-Mee. 

"I,  too,  must  away,"  she  whispered;  "yet  ere 
I  go  a  word  with  you  who  once  were  a  sculptor 
in  Egypt.  You  loved  me  then,  and  that  love  cost 
you  your  life,  you  who  once  dared  to  kiss  this  hand 
of  mine  that  again  you  kissed  in  yonder  tomb. 
For  I  was  Pharaoh's  wife  in  name  only ;  understand 
me  well,  in  name  only;  since  that  title  of  Royal 
Mother,  which  they  gave  me  is  but  a  graven  lie. 
Horu,  I  never  was  a  wife,  and  when  you  died, 
swiftly  I  followed  you  to  the  grave.  Oh,  you 
forget,  but  I  remember!  I  remember  many  things, 
You  think  that  the  priestly  thief  broke  this  figure  of 
me  which  you  found  in  the  sand  outside  my  tomb. 
Not  so.  /  broke  it,  because,  daring  greatly,  you 


64        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

had  written  thereon,  'Beloved/  not  'of  Horus 
the  God/  as  you  should  have  done,  but  of  'Horu  the 
Man/  So  when  I  came  to  be  buried,  Pharaoh, 
knowing  all,  took  the  image  from  my  wrappings 
and  hurled  it  away.  I  remember,  too,  the  casting  of 
that  image,  and  how  you  threw  a  gold  chain  I  had 
given  you  into  the  crucible  with  the  bronze,  saying 
that  gold  alone  was  fit  to  fashion  me.  And  this 
signet  that  I  bear — it  was  you  who  cut  it.  Take  it, 
take  it,  Horu,  and  in  its  place  give  me  back  that 
which  is  on  your  hand,  the  Bes  ring  that  I  also  wore. 
Take  it  and  wear  it  ever  till  you  die  again,  and  let  it 
go  to  the  grave  with  you  as  once  it  went  to  the  grave 
with  me. 

"Now  hearken.  When  Ra  the  great  sun  arises 
again  and  you  awake  you  will  think  that  you  have 
dreamed  a  dream.  You  will  think  that  in  this 
dream  you  saw  and  spoke  with  a  lady  of  Egypt 
who  died  more  than  three  thousand  years  ago, 
but  whose  beauty,  carved  in  stone  and  bronze, 
has  charmed  your  heart  to-day.  So  let  it  be,  yet 
know,  O  man,  who  once  was  named  Horu,  that  such 
dreams  are  oft-times  a  shadow  of  the  truth.  Know 
that  this  Glory  which  shines  before  you  is  mine  in- 
deed in  the  land  that  is  both  far  and  near,  the  land 
wherein  I  dwell  eternally,  and  that  what  is  mine  has 
been,  is,  and  shall  be  yours  for  ever.  Gods  may 
change  their  kingdoms  and  their  names;  men  may 
live  and  die,  and  live  again  once  more  to  die ;  empires 
may  fall  and  those  who  ruled  them  be  turned  to  for- 
gotten dust.  Yet  true  love  endures  immortal  as  the 
souls  in  which  it  was  conceived,  and  from  it  for  you 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         65 

and  me,  the  night  of  woe  and  separation  done,  at  the 
daybreak  which  draws  on,  there  shall  be  born  the 
splendour  and  the  peace  of  union.  Till  that  hour 
foredoomed  seek  me  no  more,  though  I  be  ever  near 
you,  as  I  have  ever  been.  Till  that  most  blessed 
hour,  Horu,  farewell." 

She  bent  towards  him;  her  sweet  lips  touched  his 
brow;  the  perfume  from  her  breath  and  hair  beat 
upon  him;  the  light  of  her  wondrous  eyes  searched 
out  his  very  soul,  reading  the  answer  that  was  writ- 
ten there. 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  to  clasp  her,  and  lo! 
she  was  gone. 

It  was  a  very  cold  and  a  very  stiff  Smith  who 
awoke  on  the  following  morning,  to  find  himself  ex- 
actly where  he  had  lain  down — namely,  on  a  cement 
floor  beneath  the  keel  of  a  funeral  boat  in  the  central 
hall  of  the  Cairo  Museum1.  He  crept  from  his  shelter 
shivering,  and  looked  at  this  hall,  to  find  it  quite  as 
empty  as  it  had  been  on  the  previous  evening.  Not 
a  sign  or  a  token  was  there  of  Pharaoh  Menes  and 
all  those  kings  and  queens  of  whom  he  had  dreamed 
so  vividly. 

Reflecting  on  the  strange  phantasies  that  weari- 
ness and  excited  nerves  can  summon  to  the  mind  in 
sleep,  Smith  made  his  way  to  the  great  doors  and 
waited  in  the  shadow,  praying  earnestly  that,  al- 
though it  was  the  Mohammedan  Sabbath,  someone 
might  visit  the  Museum  to  see  that  all  was  well. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  someone  did,  and  before  he 
had  been  there  a  minute — a  watchman  going  about 


66        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

his  business.  He  unlocked  the  place  carelessly,  look- 
ing over  his  shoulder  at  a  kite  fighting  with  two 
nesting  crows.  In  an  instant  Smith,  who  was  not 
minded  to  stop  and  answer  questions,  had  slipped 
past  him  and  was  gliding  down  the  portico,  from 
monument  to  monument,  like  a  snake  between  bould- 
ers, still  keeping  in  the  shadow  as  he  headed  for  the 
gates. 

The  attendant  caught  sight  of  him  and  uttered  a 
yell  of  fear ;  then,  since  it  is  not  good  to  look  upon  an 
afreet,  appearing  from  whence  no  mortal  man  could 
be,  he  turned  his  head  away.  When  he  looked  again 
Smith  was  through  those  gates  and  had  mingled  with 
the  crowd  in  the  street  beyond. 

The  sunshine  was  very  pleasant  to  one  who  was 
conscious  of  having  contracted  a  chill  of  the  worst 
Egyptian  order  from  long  contact  with  a  damp  stone 
floor.  Smith  walked  on  through  it  towards  his  hotel 
1 — it  was  Shepheard's,  and  more  than  a  mile  away — 
making  up  a  story  as  he  went  to  tell  the  hall-porter 
of  how  he  had  gone  to  dine  at  Mena  House  by  the 
Pyramids,  missed  the  last  tram,  and  stopped  the 
night  there. 

Whilst  he  was  thus  engaged  his  left  hand  struck 
somewhat  sharply  against  the  corner  of  the  cigar-box 
in  his  pocket,  that  which  contained  the  relic  of  the 
queen  Ma-Mee.  The  pain  caused  him  to  glance  at 
his  fingers  to  see  if  they  were  injured,  and  to  per- 
ceive on  one  of  them  the  ring  he  wore.  Surely, 
surely  it  was  not  the  same  that  the  Director-General 
had  given  him!  That  ring  was  engraved  with  the 
image  of  the  god  Bes.  On  this  was  cut  the  cartouche 


SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS         67 

of  her  Majesty  Ma-Mee!    And  he  had  dreamed — 
oh,  he  had  dreamed ! 

To  this  day  Smith  is  wondering  whether,  in  the 
hurry  of  the  moment,  he  made  a  mistake  as  to  which 
of  those  rings  the  Director-General  had  given  him 
as  part  of  his  share  of  the  spoil  of  the  royal  tomb 
he  discovered  in  the  Valley  of  Queens.  Afterwards 
Smith  wrote  to  ask,  but  the  Director-General  could 
only  remember  that  he  gave  him  one  of  the  two 
rings,  and  assured  him  that  that  inscribed  "Bes  Ank, 
Ank  Bes"  was  with  Ma-Mee's  other  jewels  in  the 
Gold  Room  of  the  Museum. 

Also  Smith  is  wondering  whether  any  other  bronze 
figure  of  an  old  Egyptian  royalty  shows  so  high  a 
percentage  of  gold  as,  on  analysis,  the  broken  image 
of  Ma-Mee  was  proved  to  do.  For  had  she  not 
seemed  to  tell  him  a  tale  of  the  melting  of  a  golden 
chain  when  that  effigy  was  cast? 

Was  it  all  only  a  dream,  or  was  it — some- 
thing more — by  day  and  by  night  he  asks  of  Noth- 
ingness ? 

But,  be  she  near  or  far,  no  answer  comes  from  the 
Queen  Ma-Mee,  whose  proud  titles  were  "Her 
Majesty  the  Good  God,  the  justified  Dweller  in 
Osiris;  Daughter  of  Amen,  Royal  Heiress,  Royal 
Sister,  Royal  Wife,  Royal  Mother ;  Lady  of  the  Two 
Lands ;  Wearer  of  the  Double  Crown ;  of  the  White 
Crown,  of  the  Red  Crown ;  Sweet  Flower  of  Love, 
Beautiful  Eternally." 

So,  like  the  rest  of  us,  Smith  must  wait  to  learn 
the  truth  concerning  many  things,  and  more  particu- 


68        SMITH  AND  THE  PHARAOHS 

larly  as  to  which  of  those  two  circles  of  ancient  gold 
the  Director-General  gave  him  yonder  at  Cairo. 

It  seems  but  a  little  matter,  yet  it  is  more  than  all 
the  worlds  to  him! 

To  the  astonishment  of  his  colleagues  in  anti- 
quarian research,  Smith  has  never  returned  to 
Egypt.  He  explains  to  them  that  his  health  is  quite 
restored,  and  that  he  no  longer  needs  this  annual 
change  to  a  more  temperate  clime. 

Now,  which  of  the  two  royal  rings  did  the  Di- 
rector-General return  to  Smith  on  the  mummied 
hand  of  her  late  Majesty  Ma-Mee? 


Magepa  the  Buck 

IN  a  preface  to  a  story  of  the  early  life  of  the  late 
Allan  Quatermain,  known  in  Africa  as  Macuma- 
zahn,  which  has  been  published  under  the  name  of 
"Marie,"  Mr.  Curtis,  the  brother  of  Sir  Henry 
Curtis,  tells  of  how  he  found  a  number  of  manu- 
scripts that  were  left  by  Mr.  Quatermain  in  his  house 
in  Yorkshire.  Of  these  "Marie"  was  one,  but  in 
addition  to  it  and  sundry  other  completed  records 
I,  the  Editor  to  whom  it  was  directed  that  these 
manuscripts  should  be  handed  for  publication,  have 
found  a  quantity  of  unclassified  notes  and  papers. 
Some  of  these  deal  with  matters  that  have  to  do  with 
sport  and  game,  or  with  historical  events,  and  some 
are  memoranda  of  incidents  connected  with  the 
career  of  the  writer,  or  with  remarkable  occurrences 
that  he  had  witnessed  of  which  he  does  not  speak 
elsewhere. 

One  of  these  notes — it  is  contained  in  a  book  much 
soiled  and  worn  that  evidently  its  owner  had  carried 
about  with  him  for  years — reminds  me  of  a  conversa- 
tion that  I  had  with  Mr.  Quatermain  long  ago  when 
I  was  his  guest  in  Yorkshire.  The  note  itself  is 

short;  I  think  that  he  must  have  jotted  it  down 

6Q 


70  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

within  an  hour  or  two  of  the  event  to  which  it  refers. 
It  runs  thus  : — 

"I  wonder  whether  in  the  'Land  Beyond*  any 
recognition  is  granted  for  acts  of  great  courage  and 
unselfish  devotion — a  kind  of  spiritual  Victoria 
Cross.  If  so  I  think  it  ought  to  be  accorded  to  that 
poor  old  savage,  Magepa,  as  it  would  be  if  I  had 
any  voice  in  the  matter.  Upon  my  word  he  has 
made  me  feel  proud  of  humanity.  And  yet  he  was 
nothing  but  a  'nigger/  as  so  many  call  the  Kaffirs." 

For  a  while  I,  the  Editor,  wondered  to  what  this 
entry  could  allude.  Then  of  a  sudden  it  all  came 
back  to  me.  I  saw  myself,  as  a  young  man,  seated  in 
the  hall  of  Quatermain's  house  one  evening  after 
dinner.  With  me  were  Sir  Henry  Curtis  and  Cap- 
tain Good.  We  were  smoking,  and  the  conversation 
had  turned  upon  deeds  of  heroism.  Each  of  us  de- 
tailed such  acts  as  he  could  remember  which  had 
made  the  most  impression  on  him.  When  we  had 
finished,  old  Allan  said : — 

"With  your  leave  I'll  tell  you  a  story  of  what 
I  think  was  one  of  the  bravest  things  I  ever  saw. 
It  happened  at  the  beginning  of  the  Zulu  War,  when 
the  troops  were  marching  into  Zululand.  Now  at 
that  time,  as  you  know,  I  was  turning  an  honest 
penny  transport-riding  for  Government,  or  rather 
for  the  military  authorities.  I  hired  them  three 
wagons  with  the  necessary  voorloopers  and  drivers, 
sixteen  good  salted  oxen  to  each  wagon,  and  myself 
in  charge  of  the  lot.  They  paid  me,  well,  never  mind 
how  much — I  am  rather  ashamed  to  mention  the 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  71 

amount.  The  truth  is  that  the  Imperial  officers 
•bought  in  a  dear  market  during  the  Zulu  War; 
moreover,  things  were  not  always  straight.  I  could 
tell  you  stories  of  folk,  not  all  of  them  Colonials, 
who  got  rich  quicker  than  they  ought,  commissions 
and  that  kind  of  thing.  But  perhaps  these  are  better 
forgotten.  As  for  me,  I  asked  a  good  price  for  my 
wagons,  or  rather  for  the  hire  of  them,  of  a  very 
well-satisfied  young  gentleman  in  uniform  who  had 
been  exactly  three  weeks  in  the  country,  and  to  my 
surprise,  got  it.  But  when  I  went  to  those  in  com- 
mand and  warned  them  what  would  happen  if  they 
persisted  in  their  way  of  advance,  then  in  their  pride 
they  would  not  listen  to  the  old  hunter  and  trans- 
port-rider, but  politely  bowed  me  out.  If  they  had, 
there  would  have  been  no  Isandhlwana  disaster." 

He  brooded  awhile,  for,  as  I  knew,  this  was  a  sore 
subject  with  him,  one  on  which  he  would  rarely  talk. 
Although  he  escaped  himself,  Quatermain  had  lost 
friends  on  that  fatal  field.  He  went  on : — 

"To  return  to  old  Magepa.  I  had  known  him  for 
many  years.  The  first  time  we  met  was  in  the  battle 
of  the  Tugela.  I  was  fighting  for  the  king's  son, 
Umbelazi  the  Handsome,  in  the  ranks  of  the  Tul- 
wana  regiment — I  mean  to  write  all  that  story,  for  it 
should  not  be  lost.  Well,  as  I  have  told  you  before, 
the  Tulwana  were  wiped  out;  of  the  three  thousand 
or  so  of  them'  I  think  only  about  fifty  remained  alive 
after  they  had  annihilated  the  three  of  Cetewayo's 
regiments  that  set  upon  them.  But  as  it  chanced 
Magepa  was  one  who  survived. 

"I  met  him  afterwards  at  old  King  Panda's  kraal 


72  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

and  recognised  him  as  having  fought  by  my  side. 
Whilst  I  was  talking  to  him  the  Prince  Cetewayo 
came  by;  to  me  he  was  civil  enough,  for  he  knew 
how  I  chanced  to  be  in  the  battle,  but  he  glared  at 
Magepa,  and  said : 

"  'Why,  Macumazahn,  is  not  this  man  one  of  the 
dogs  with  which  you  tried  to  bite  me  by  the  Tugela 
not  long  ago  ?  He  must  be  a  cunning  dog  also,  one 
who  can  run  fast,  for  how  comes  it  that  he  lives  to 
snarl  when  so  many  will  never  bark  again?  Owl 
if  I  had  my  way  I  would  find  a  strip  of  hide  to  fit 
his  neck/ 

"  'Not  so/  I  answered,  'he  has  the  King's  peace 
and  he  is  a  brave  man — braver  than  I  am,  any  way, 
Prince,  seeing  that  I  ran  from  the  ranks  of  the  Tul- 
wana,  while  he  stood  where  he  was/ 

"  'You  mean  that  your  horse  ran,  Macumazahn. 
Well,  since  you  like  this  dog,  I  will  not  hurt  him/ 
and  with  a  shrug  he  went  his  way. 

"  'Yet  soon  or  late  he  will  hurt  me/  said  Magepa, 
when  the  Prince  had  gone.  'U'Cetewayo  has  a 
memory  long  as  the  shadow  thrown  by  a  tree  at 
sunset.  Moreover,  as  he  knows  well,  it  is  true  that 
I  ran,  Macumazahn,  though  not  till  all  was  finished 
and  I  could  do  no  more  by  standing  still.  You 
remember  how,  after  we  had  eaten  up  the  first  of 
Cetewayo's  regiments,  the  second  charged  us  and 
we  ate  that  up  also.  Well,  in  that  fight  I  got  a  tap 
on  the  head  from  a  kerry.  It  struck  me  on  my  man's 
ring  which  I  had  just  put  on,  for  I  think  I  was  the 
youngest  soldier  in  that  regiment  of  veterans.  The 
ring  saved  me ;  still,  for  a  while  I  lost  my  mind  and 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  73 

lay  like  one  dead.  When  I  found  it  again  the  fight 
was  over  and  Cetewayo's  people  were  searching  for 
our  wounded  that  they  might  kill  them.  Presently 
they  found  me  and  saw  that  there  was  no  hurt  on 
me. 

"Here  is  one  who  shams  dead  like  a  stink-cat," 
said  a  big  fellow,  lifting  his  spear. 

"  'Then  it  was  that  I  sprang  up  and  ran,  who  was 
but  just  married  and  desired  to  live.  He  struck 
at  me,  but  I  jumped  over  the  spear,  and  the  others 
that  they  threw  missed  me.  Then  they  began  to 
hunt  me,  but  Macumazahn,  I  who  am  named 
"The  Buck"  because  I  am  swifter  of  foot  than  any 
man  in  Zululand,  outpaced  them  all  and  got  away 
safe.' 

"  'Well  done,  Magepa,'  I  said.  'Still,  remember 
the  saying  of  your  people,  "At  last  the  strong  swim- 
mer goes  with  the  stream  and  the  swift  runner  is  run 
down." ' 

"  'I  know  it,  Macumazahn/  he  answered,  with  a 
nod,  'and  perhaps  in  a  day  to  come  I  shall  know  it 
better.' 

"I  took  little  heed  of  his  words  at  the  time,  but 
more  than  thirty  years  afterwards  I  remembered 
them. 

"Such  was  my  first  acquaintance  with  Magepa. 
•Now,  friends,  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was  renewed  at 
the  time  of  the  Zulu  War. 

"As  you  know,  I  was  attached  to  the  centre 
column  that  advanced  into  Zululand  by  Rorke's  Drift 
on  the  Buffalo  River.  Before  war  was  declared,  or 
at  any  rate  before  the  advance  began,  while  it  might 


74  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

have  been  and  many  thought  it  would  be  averted, 
I  was  employed  transport-riding  goods  to  the  little 
Rorke's  Drift  Station,  that  which  became  so  famous 
afterwards,  and  incidentally  in  collecting  what  infor- 
mation I  could  of  Cetewayo's  intentions.  Hearing 
that  there  was  a  kraal  a  mile  or  so  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  of  which  the  people  were  said  to  be 
very  friendly  to  the  English,  I  determined  to  visit 
it.  You  may  think  this  was  rash,  but  I  was  so  well 
known  in  Zululand,  where  for  many  years,  by  special 
leave  of  the  king,  I  was  allowed  to  go  whither  I 
would  quite  unmolested  and,  indeed,  under  the  royal 
protection,  that  I  felt  no  fear  for  myself  so  long  as 
I  went  alone. 

"Accordingly  one  evening  I  crossed  the  drift  and 
headed  for  a  kloof  in  which  I  was  told  the  kraal 
stood.  Ten  minutes*  ride  brought  me  in  sight  of  it. 
It  was  not  a  large  kraal;  there  may  have  been  six 
or  eight  huts  and  a  cattle  enclosure  surrounded  by 
the  usual  fence.  The  situation,  however,  was  very 
pretty,  a  knoll  of  rising  ground  backed  by  the 
wooded  slopes  of  the  kloof.  As  I  approached  I 
saw  women  and  children  running  to  the  kraal  to 
hide,  and  when  I  reached  the  gateway  for  some  time 
no  one  would  come  out  to  meet  me.  At  length  a 
small  boy  appeared  who  informed  me  that  the  kraal 
was  'empty  as  a  gourd/ 

"  'Quite  so/  I  answered ;  'still  go  and  tell  the 
headman  that  Macumazahn  wishes  to  speak  with 
him/ 

"The  boy  departed,  and  presently  I  saw  a  face 
that  seemed  familiar  to  me  peeping  round  the  edge 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  75 

of  the  gateway.  After  a  careful  inspection  its  owner 
emerged. 

"He  was  a  tall,  thin  man  of  indefinite  age,  per- 
haps between  sixty  and  seventy,  with  a  finely-cut 
face,  a  little  grey  beard,  kind  eyes  and  very  well- 
shaped  hands  and  feet,  the  fingers,  which  twitched 
incessantly,  being  remarkably  long. 

"  'Greeting  Macumazahn/  he  said,  'I  see  you  do 
not  remember  me.  Well,  think  of  the  battle  of  the 
Tugela,  and  of  the  last  stand  of  the  Tulwana,  and 
of  a  certain  talk  at  the  kraal  of  our  Father-who-is- 
dead'  (that  is  King  Panda),  'and  of  how  he  who 
sits  in  his  place'  (he  meant  Cetewayo),  'told  you 
that  if  he  had  his  way  he  would  find  a  hide  rope  to 
fit  the  neck  of  a  certain  one/ 

"  'Ah !'  I  said,  'I  know  you  now,  you  are  Magepa 
the  Buck.  So  the  Runner  has  not  yet  been  run 
down/ 

"  'No,  Macumazahn,  not  yet,  but  there  is  still 
time.  I  think  that  many  swift  feet  will  be  at  work 
ere  long/ 

"  'How  have  you  prospered  ?'  I  asked  him. 

"  'Well  enough,  Macumazahn,  in  all  ways  except 
one.  I  have  three  wives,  but  my  children  have  been 
few  and  are  dead,  except  one  daughter,  who  is  mar- 
ried and  lives  with  me,  for  her  husband,  too,  is 
dead.  He  was  killed  by  a  buffalo,  and  she  has  not 
yet  married  again.  But  enter  and  see/ 

"So  I  went  in  and  saw  Magepa's  wives,  old 
women  all  of  them.  Also  at  his  bidding,  his  daugh- 
ter, whose  name  was  Gita,  brought  me  some  maas, 
or  curdled  milk,  to  drink.  She  was  a  well-formed 


76  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

woman,  very  like  her  father,  but  sad-faced,  perhaps 
with  a  prescience  of  evil  to  come.  Clinging  to  her 
finger  was  a  beautiful  boy  of  something  under  two 
years  of  age,  who,  when  he  saw  Magepa,  ran  to  him 
and  threw  his  little  arms  about  his  legs.  The  old 
man  lifted  the  child  and  kissed  him  tenderly,  saying: 

"  'It  is  well  that  this  toddler  and  I  should  love 
one  another,  Macumazahn,  seeing  that  he  is  the  last 
of  my  race.  All  the  other  children  here  are  those  of 
the  people  who  have  come  to  live  in  my  shadow.' 

"  'Where  are  their  fathers  ?'  I  asked,  patting  the 
little  boy  who,  his  mother  told  me,  was  named 
Sinala,  upon  the  cheek,  an  attention  that  he  resented, 

"  They  have  been  called  away  on  duty/  answered 
Magepa  shortly;  and  I  changed  the  subject. 

"Then  we  began  to  talk  about  old  times,  and  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  any  oxen  to  sell,  saying  that 
this  was  my  reason  for  visiting  his  kraal. 

'  'Nay,  Macumazahn/  he  answered  in  a  meaning 
voice.  'This  year  all  the  cattle  are  the  king's/ 

"I  nodded  and  replied  that,  as  it  was  so,  I  had 
better  be  going,  whereon,  as  I  half  expected,  Magepa 
announced  that  he  would  see  me  safe  to  the  drift. 
So  I  bade  farewell  to  the  wives  and  the  widowed 
daughter,  and  we  started. 

"As  soon  as  we  were  clear  of  the  kraal  Magepa 
began  to  open  his  heart  to  me. 

"  'Macumazahn/  he  said,  looking  up  at  me 
earnestly,  for  I  was  mounted  and  he  walked  beside 
my  horse,  'there  is  to  be  war.  Cetewayo  will  not 
consent  to  the  demands  of  the  great  White  Chief 
from  the  Cape/ — he  meant  Sir  Bartle  Frere — 'he 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  77 

will  fight  with  the  English;  only  he  will  let  them 
begin  the  fighting.  He  will  draw  them  on  into 
Zululand  and  then  overwhelm  them  with  his  impis 
and  stamp  them  flat,  and  eat  them  up;  and  I,  who 
love  the  English,  am  very  sorry.  Yes,  it  makes  my 
heart  bleed.  If  it  were  the  Boers  now,  I  should  be 
glad,  for  we  Zulus  hate  the  Boers ;  but  the  English 
we  do  not  hate ;  even  Cetewayo  likes  them ;  still,  he 
will  eat  them  up  if  they  attack  him/ 

"  'Indeed/  I  answered ;  and  then  as  in  duty  bound 
I  proceeded  to  get  what  I  could  out  of  him,  and  that 
was  not  a  little.  Of  course,  however,  I  did  not 
swallow  it  all,  since  that  I  suspected  that  Magepa 
was  feeding  me  with  news  that  he  had  been  ordered 
to  disseminate. 

"Presently  we  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  kloof  in 
which  the  kraal  stood,  and  here,  for  greater  con- 
venience of  conversation,  we  halted,  for  I  thought 
it  as  well  that  we  should  not  be  seen  in  close  talk  on 
the  open  plain  beyond.  The  path  here,  I  should  add, 
ran  past  a  clump  of  green  bushes ;  I  remember  they 
bore  a  white  flower  that  smelt  sweet,  and  were 
backed  by  some  tall  grass,  elephant-grass  I  think  it 
was,  among  which  grew  mimosa  trees. 

"  'Magepa/  I  said,  'if  in  truth  there  is  to  be  fight- 
ing, why  don't  you  move  over  the  river  one 
night  with  your  people  and  cattle,  and  get  into 
Natal?'" 

"  'I  would  if  I  could,  Macumazahn,  who  have  no 
stomach  for  this  war  against  the  English.  But  there 
I  should  not  be  safe,  since  presently  the  king  will 
come  into  Natal  too,  or  send  thirty  thousand  assegais 


78  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

as  his  messengers.  Then  what  will  happen  to  those 
who  have  left  him  ?' 

"  'Oh !  if  you  think  that/  I  answered,  laughing, 
'you  had  better  stay  where  you  are/ 

"  'Also,  Macumazahn,  the  husbands  of  those 
women  at  my  kraal  have  been  called  up  to  their  regi- 
ments, and  if  their  wives  fled  to  the  English  they 
would  be  killed.  Again,  the  king  has  sent  for  nearly 
all  our  cattle  "to  keep  them  safe/'  He  fears  lest  we 
Border  Zulus  might  join  our  people  in  Natal,  and 
that  is  why  he  is  keeping  our  cattle  "safe." 

"  'Life  is  more  than  cattle,  Magepa.  At  least  you 
might  come/ 

'"What!  And  leave  my  people  to  be  killed? 
Macumazahn,  you  did  not  use  to  talk  so.  Still, 
hearken.  Macumazahn,  will  you  do  me  a  service? 
I  will  pay  you  well  for  it.  I  would  get  my  daughter 
Gita  and  my  little  grandson  Sinala  into  safety. 
If  I  and  my  wives  are  wiped  out  it  does  not  matter, 
for  we  are  old.  But  her  I  would  save,  and  the  boy 
I  would  save,  so  that  one  may  live  who  will  remem- 
ber my  name.  Now  if  I  were  to  send  them  across 
the  drift,  say  at  the  dawn,  not  to-morrow  and  not  the 
next  day,  but  the  day  after,  would  you  receive  them 
into  your  wagon  and  deliver  them  safe  to  some  place 
in  Natal?  I  have  money  hidden,  fifty  pieces  of  gold, 
and  you  may  take  half  of  these  and  also  half  of  the 
cattle  if  ever  I  live  to  get  them  back  out  of  the  keep- 
ing of  the  king/ 

"  'Never  mind  about  the  money,  and  we  will  speak 
of  the  cattle  afterwards/  I  said.  'I  understand  that 
you  wish  to  send  your  daughter  and  your  little 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  79 

grandson  out  of  danger ;  and  I  think  you  wise,  very 
wise.  .When  once  the  advance  begins,  if  there  is  an 
advance,  who  knows  what  may  happen?  War  is  a 
rough  game,  Magepa.  It  is  not  the  custom  of  you 
black  people  to  spare  women  and  children ;  and  there 
will  be  Zulus  fighting  on  our  side  as  well  as  on  yours ; 
do  you  understand  ?' 

"  'Ow!  I  understand,  Macumazahn.  I  have 
known  the  face  of  war  and  seen  many  a  little  one 
like  my  grandson  Sinala  assegaied  upon  his  mother's 
back/ 

"  'Very  good.  But  if  I  do  this  for  you,  you  must 
do  something  for  me.  Say,  Magepa,  does  Cetewayo 
really  mean  to  fight,  and  if  so,  how?  Oh  yes,  I 
know  all  you  have  been  telling  me,  but  I  want  not 
words  but  truth  from  the  heart/  ' 

"  'You  ask  secrets/  said  the  old  fellow,  peering 
about  him  into  the  gathering  gloom.  'Still,  "a  spear 
for  a  spear  and  a  shield  for  a  shield,"  as  our  saying 
runs.  I  have  spoken  no  lie.  The  king  does  mean  to 
fight,  not  because  he  wants  to,  but  because  the  regi- 
ments swear  that  they  will  wash  their  assegais ;  they 
who  have  never  seen  blood  since  that  battle  of  the 
Tugela  in  which  we  two  played  a  part,  and  if  he  will 
not  suffer  it,  well,  there  are  more  of  his  race !  Also 
he  means  to  fight  thus/  and  he  gave  me  some  very 
useful  information,  that  is,  information  which  would 
have  been  useful  if  those  in  authority  had  deigned  to 
pay  any  attention  to  it  when  I  passed  it  on. 

"Just  as  he  finished  speaking  I  thought  that  I 
heard  a  sound  in  the  dense  green  bush  behind  us.  It 
reminded  me  of  the  noise  a  man  makes  when  he 


8o  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

tries  to  stifle  a  cough,  and  frightened  me.  For  if 
we  had  been  overhead  by  a  spy,  Magepa  was  as  good 
as  dead,  and  the  sooner  I  was  across  the  river  the 
better. 

"' What's  that?'  I  asked. 

"  'A  bush  buck,  Macumazahn.  There  are  lots  of 
them  about  here/ 

"Not  being  satisfied,  though  it  is  true  that  buck 
do  cough  like  this,  I  turned  my  horse  to  the  bush, 
seeking  an  opening.  Thereon  something  crashed 
away  and  vanished  into  the  long  grass.  In  those 
shadows,  of  course,  I  could  not  see  what  it  was,  but 
such  light  as  remained  glinted  on  what  might  have 
been  the  polished  tip  of  the  horn  of  an  antelope  or — 
an  assegai. 

"  'I  told  you  it  was  a  buck,  Macumazahn/  said 
Magepa.  *  Still,  if  you  smell  danger,  let  us  come 
away  from  the  bush,  though  the  orders  are  that  no 
white  man  is  to  be  touched  as  yet/ 

"Then,  while  we  walked  on  towards  the  ford,  he 
set  out  with  great  detail,  as  Kaffirs  do,  the  exact 
arrangements  that  he  proposed  to  make  for  the 
handing  over  of  his  daughter  and  her  child  into  my 
care.  I  remember  that  I  asked  him  why  he  would 
not  send  her  on  the  following  morning,  instead  of 
two  mornings  later.  He  answered  because  he  ex- 
pected an  outpost  of  scouts  from  one  of  the  regi- 
ments at  his  kraal  that  night,  who  would  probably 
remain  there  over  the  morrow  and  perhaps  longer. 
While  they  were  in  the  place  it  would  be  difficult,  if 
not  impossible,  for  him  to  send  away  Gita  and  her 
son  without  exciting  suspicion. 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  81 

"Near  the  drift  we  parted,  and  I  returned  to  our 
provisional  camp  and  wrote  a  beautiful  report  of  all 
that  I  had  learned,  of  which  report,  I  may  add,  no 
one  took  the  slightest  notice. 

"I  think  it  was  the  morning  before  that  whereon 
I  had  arranged  to  meet  Gita  and  the  little  boy  at 
the  drift  that  just  about  dawn  I  went  down  to  the 
river  for  a  wash.  Having  taken  my  dip,  I  climbed 
on  to  a  flat  rock  to  dress  myself,  and  looked  at  the 
billows  of  beautiful,  pearly  mist  which  hid  the  face 
of  the  water,  and  considered — I  almost  said  listened 
to — the  great  silence,  for  as  yet  no  live  thing  was 
stirring. 

"Ah!  if  I  had  known  of  the  hideous  sights  and 
sounds  that  were  destined  to  be  heard  ere  long  in 
this  same  haunt  of  perfect  peace !  Indeed,  at  that 
moment  there  came  a  kind  of  hint  or  premonition  of 
them,  since  suddenly  through  the  utter  quiet  broke 
the  blood-curdling  wail  of  a  woman.  It  was  fol- 
lowed by  other  wails  and  shouts,  distant  and  yet 
distinct.  Then  the  silence  fell  again. 

"Now,  thought  I  to  myself,  that  noise  might  very 
well  have  come  from  old  Magepa's  kraal;  luckily, 
however,  sounds  are  deceptive  in  mist. 

"Well,  the  end  of  it  was  that  I  waited  there  till 
the  sun  rose.  The  first  thing  on  which  its  bright 
beams  struck  was  a  mighty  column  of  smoke  rising 
to  heaven  from  where  Magepa's  kraal  had  stood ! 

"I  went  back  to  my  wagons  very  sad — so  sad  that 
I  could  scarcely  eat  my  breakfast.  While  I  walked 
I  wondered  hard  whether  the  light  had  glinted  upon 
the  tip  of  a  buck's  horn  in  that  patch  of  green  bush 


82  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

with  the  sweet-smelling  white  flowers  a  night  or  two 
ago.  Or  had  it  perchance  fallen  upon  the  point  of 
the  assegai  of  some  spy  who  was  watching  my  move- 
ments !  In  that  event  yonder  column  of  smoke  and 
the  horrible  cries  that  preceded  it  were  easy  to 
explain.  For  had  not  Magepa  and  I  talked  secrets 
together,  and  in  Zulu  ? 

"On  the  following  morning  at  the  dawn  I  at- 
tended at  the  drift  in  the  faint  hope  that  Gita  and  her 
boy  might  arrive  there  as  arranged.  But  nobody- 
came,  which  was  not  wonderful,  seeing  that  Gita 
lay  dead,  stabbed  through  and  through,  as  I  saw 
afterwards  (she  made  a  good  fight  for  the  child), 
and  that  her  spirit  had  gone  to  wherever  go  the  souls 
of  the  brave-hearted,  be  they  white  or  black.  Only 
on  the  farther  bank  of  the  river  I  saw  some  Zulu 
scouts  who  seemed  to  know  my  errand,  for  they 
called  to  me,  asking  mockingly  where  was  the  pretty 
woman  I  had  come  to  meet  ? 

"After  that  I  tried  to  put  the  matter  out  of  my 
head,  which  indeed  was  full  enough  of  other  things, 
since  now  definite  orders  had  arrived  as  to  the 
advance,  and  with  these  many  troops  and  officers. 

"It  was  just  then  that  the  Zulus  began  to  fire 
across  the  river  at  such  of  our  people  as  they  saw 
upon  the  bank.  At  these  they  took  aim,  and,  as  a 
result,  hit  nobody.  A  raw  Kaffir  with  a  rifle,  in  my 
experience,  is  only  dangerous  when  he  aims  at 
nothing,  for  then  the  bullet  looks  after  itself  and 
may  catch  you.  To  put  a  stop  to  this  nuisance  a 
regiment  of  the  friendly  natives — there  may  have 
been  several  hundred  of  them — was  directed  to  cross 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  83 

the  river  and  clear  the  kloofs  and  rocks  of  the  Zulu 
skirmishers  who  were  hidden  among  them.  I 
watched  them  go  off  in  fine  style,  and  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon  heard  a  good  deal  of  shouting  and 
banging  of  guns  on  the  farther  side  of  the  river. 

"Towards  evening  someone  told  me  that  our  impi, 
as  he  called  it  grandiloquently,  was  returning  vic- 
torious. Having  at  the  moment  nothing  else  to  do, 
I  walked  down  to  the  river  at  a  point  where  the 
water  was  deep  and  the  banks  were  high.  Here  I 
climbed  to  the  top  of  a  pile  of  boulders,  whence  with 
my  field-glasses  I  could  sweep  a  great  extent  of  plain 
which  stretched  away  on  the  Zululand  side  till  at 
length  it  merged  into  hills  and  bush. 

"Presently  I  saw  some  of  our  natives  marching 
homewards  in  a  scattered  and  disorganised  fashion, 
but  evidently  very  proud  of  themselves,  for  they 
were  waving  their  assegais  and  singing  scraps  of 
war-songs.  A  few  minutes  later,  a  mile  or  more 
away,  I  caught  sight  of  a  man  running. 

"Watching  him  through  the  glasses  I  noted  three 
things :  First,  that  he  was  tall ;  secondly,  that  he  ran 
with  extraordinary  swiftness;  and,  thirdly,  that  he 
had  something  tied  upon  his  back.  It  was  evident, 
further,  that  he  had  good  reason  to  run,  since  he  was 
being  hunted  by  a  number  of  our  Kaffirs,  of  whom 
more  and  more  continually  joined  in  the  chase. 
From  every  side  they  poured  down  upon  him,  trying 
to  cut  him  off  and  kill  him,  for  as  they  got  nearer  I 
could  see  the  assegais  which  they  threw  at  him  flash 
in  the  sunlight. 

"Very  soon  I  understood  that  the  man  was  run- 


84  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

ning  with  a  definite  object  and  to  a  definite  point; 
he  was  trying  to  reach  the  river.  I  thought  the  sight 
very  pitiful,  this  one  poor  creature  being  hunted  to 
death  by  so  many.  Also  I  wondered  why  he  did  not 
free  himself  from  the  bundle  on  his  back,  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  must  be  a  witch-doctor,  and 
that  the  bundle  contained  his  precious  charms  or 
medicines. 

"This  was  while  he  was  yet  a  long  way  off,  but 
when  he  came  nearer,  within  three  or  four  hundred 
yards,  of  a  sudden  I  caught  the  outline  of  his  face 
against  a  good  background,  and  knew  it  for  that  of 
Magepa. 

"  'My  God !'  I  said  to  myself,  'it  is  old  Magepa 
the  Buck,  and  the  bundle  in  the  mat  will  be  his 
grandson,  Sinala!' 

"Yes,  even  then  I  felt  certain  that  he  was  carry- 
ing the  child  upon  his  back. 

"What  was  I  to  do?  It  was  impossible  for  me  to 
cross  the  river  at  that  place,  and  long  before  I  could 
get  round  by  the  ford  all  would  be  finished.  I  stood 
up  on  my  rock  and  shouted  to  those  brutes  of  Kaffirs 
to  let  the  man  alone.  They  were  so  excited  that 
they  did  not  hear  my  words;  at  least,  they  swore 
afterwards  that  they  thought  I  was  encouraging 
them  to  hunt  him  down. 

"But  Magepa  heard  me.  At  the  moment  he 
seemed  to  be  failing,  but  the  sight  of  me  appeared 
to  give  him  fresh  strength.  He  gathered  himself 
together  and  leapt  forward  at  a  really  surprising 
speed.  Now  the  river  was  not  more  than  three  hun- 
dred yards  away  from  him,  and  for  the  first  two 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  85 

hundred  of  these  he  quite  outdistanced  his  pursuers, 
although  they  were  most  of  them  young  men  and 
comparatively  fresh.  Then  once  more  his  strength 
began  to  fail. 

"Watching  through  the  glasses,  I  could  see  that 
his  mouth  was  wide  open,  and  that  there  was  red 
foam  upon  his  lips.  The  burden  on  his  back  was 
dragging  him  down.  Once  he  lifted  his  hands  as 
though  to  loose  it ;  then  with  a  wild  gesture  let  them 
fall  again. 

"Two  of  the  pursuers  who  had  outpaced  the  others 
crept  up  to  him — lank,  lean  men  of  not  more  than 
thirty  years  of  age.  They  had  stabbing  spears  in 
their  hands,  such  as  are  used  at  close  quarters,  and 
these  of  course  they  did  not  throw.  One  of  them 
gained  a  little  on  the  other. 

"Now  Magepa  was  not  more  than  fifty  yards  from 
the  bank,  with  the  first  hunter  about  ten  paces  behind 
him  and  coming  up  rapidly.  Magepa  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  and  saw,  then  put  out  his  last  strength. 
For  forty  yards  he  went  like  an  arrow,  running 
straight  away  from  his  pursuers,  until  he  was  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  bank,  when  he  stumbled  and  fell. 

"  'He's  done/  I  said,  and,  upon  my  word,  if  I  had 
had  a  rifle  in  my  hand  I  think  I  would  have  stopped 
one  or  both  of  those  bloodhounds  and  taken  the 
consequences. 

"But,  no!  Just  as  the  first  man  lifted  his  broad 
spear  to  stab  him  through  the  back  on  which  the 
bundle  lay,  Magepa  leapt  up  and  wheeled  round  to 
take  the  thrust  in  his  chest.  Evidently  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  speared  in  the  back — for  a  certain  reason. 


86  MAGEPA  THE  BUCK 

He  took  it  sure  enough,  for  the  assegai  was  wrenched 
out  of  the  hand  of  the  striker.  Still,  as  he  was  reel- 
ing backwards,  it  did  not  go  through  Magepa,  or 
perhaps  it  hit  a  bone.  He  drew  out  the  spear  and 
threw  it  at  the  man,  wounding  him.  Then  he  stag- 
gered on,  back  and  back  to  the  edge  of  the  little  cliff. 
"It  was  reached  at  last.  With  a  cry  of  'Help  me, 
Macumazahn !'  Magepa  turned,  and  before  the  other 
man  could  spear  him,  leapt  straight  into  the  deep 
water.  He  rose.  Yes,  the  brave  old  fellow  rose  and 
struck  out  for  the  other  bank,  leaving  a  little  line  of 
red  behind  him. 

"I  rushed,  or  rather  sprang  and  rolled  down  to 
the  edge  of  the  stream  to  where  a  point  of  shingle 
ran  out  into  the  water.  Along  this  I  clambered,  and 
beyond  it  up  to  my  middle.  Now  Magepa  was  being 
swept  past  me.  I  caught  his  outstretched  hand  and 
pulled  him  ashore. 

"  The  boy !'  he  gasped ;  'the  boy !  Is  he  dead  ?' 
"I  severed  the  lashings  of  the  mat  that  had  cut 
right  into  the  old  fellow's  shoulders.  Inside  of  it 
was  little  Sinala,  spluttering  out  water,  but  very 
evidently  alive  and  unhurt,  for  presently  he  set  up  a 
yell. 

"  'No/  I  said,  'he  lives,  and  will  live/ 
"'Then  all  is  well,  Macumazahn/  (A  pause. ) 
'It  was  a  spy  in  the  bush,  not  a  buck.  He  overheard 
our  talk.  The  King's  slayers  came.  Gita  held  the 
door  of  the  hut  while  I  took  the  child,  cut  a  hole 
through  the  straw  with  my  assegai,  and  crept  out  at 
the  back.  She  was  full  of  spears  before  she  died, 
but  I  got  away  with  the  boy.  Till  your  Kaffirs 


MAGEPA  THE  BUCK  87 

found  me  I  lay  hid  in  the  bush,  hoping  to  escape  to 
Natal.  Then  I  ran  for  the  river,  and  saw  you  on 
the  farther  bank.  /  might  have  got  away,  but  that 
child  is  heavy.'  (A  pause.)  'Give  him  food, 
Macumazahn,  he  must  be  hungry.'  {A  pause.) 
'Farewell.  That  was  a  good  saying  of  yours — the 
swift  runner  is  outrun  at  last.  Ah!  yet  I  did  not 
run  in  vain/  (Another  pause,  the  last.)  Then  he 
lifted  himself  upon  one  arm  and  with  the  other 
saluted,  first  the  boy  Sinala  and  next  me,  muttering, 
'Remember  your  promise,  Macumazahn/ 

"That  is  how  Magepa  the  Buck  died.  I  never 
saw  anyone  carrying  weight  who  could  run  quite  so 
well  as  he,"  and  Quatermain  turned  his  head  away 
as  though  the  memory  of  this  incident  affected  him 
somewhat. 

"What  became  of  the  child  Sinala?"  I  asked 
presently. 

"Oh !  I  sent  him  to  an  institution  in  Natal,  and 
afterwards  was  able  to  get  some  of  his  property 
back  for  him.  I  believe  that  he  is  being  trained  as 
an  interpreter/' 


The  Blue  Curtains 


IN  his  regiment  familiarly  they  called  him  "Bottles," 
nobody  quite  knew  why.  It  was,  however, 
rumoured  that  he  had  been  called  "Bottles"  at 
Harrow  on  account  of  the  shape  of  his  nose.  Not 
that  his  nose  was  particularly  like  a  bottle,  but  at 
the  end  it  was  round  and  large  and  thick.  In 
reality,  however,  the  sobriquet  was  more  ancient 
than  that,  for  it  had  belonged  to  the  hero  of  this 
story  from  babyhood.  Now,  when  a  man  has  a  nick- 
name, it  generally  implies  two  things :  first,  that  he 
is  good-tempered,  and,  secondly,  that  he  is  a  good 
fellow.  Bottles,  alias  John  George  Peritt,  of  a  regi- 
ment it  is  unnecessary  to  name,  amply  justified  both 
these  definitions,  for  a  kindlier-tempered  or  better 
fellow  never  breathed.  But  unless  a  thick,  round 
nose,  a  pair  of  small,  light-coloured  eyes,  set  under 
bushy  brows,  and  a  large  but  not  badly  shaped 
mo'Uth  can  be  said  to  constitute  beauty,  he  was  not 
beautiful.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  he  was  big 
and  well-formed,  and  a  pleasant-mannered  if  a 
rather  silent  companion. 

Many  years  ago  Bottles  was  in  love ;  all  the  regi- 
89 


90  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

ment  knew  it,  he  was  so  very  palpably  and  com- 
pletely in  love.  Over  his  bed  in  his  tidy  quarters 
hung-  the  photograph  of  a  young  lady  who  was 
known  to  be  the  young  lady;  which,  when  the  regi- 
ment, individually  and  collectively,  happened  to  see 
it,  left  no  doubt  in  its  mind  as  to  their  comrade's 
taste.  It  was  evident  even  from  that  badly-coloured 
photograph  that  Miss  Madeline  Spenser  had  the 
makings  of  a  lovely  figure  and  a  pair  of  wonderful 
eyes.  It  was  said,  however,  that  she  had  not  a  six- 
pence ;  and  as  our  hero  had  but  very  few,  the  mar- 
ried ladies  of  the  battalion  used  frequently  to 
speculate  how  Mr.  Peritt  would  "manage"  when  it 
came  to  matrimony. 

At  this  date  the  regiment  was  quartered  in 
Maritzburg,  Natal,  but  its  term  of  foreign  service 
had  expired,  and  it  expected  to  be  ordered  home 
immediately. 

One  morning  Bottles  had  been  out  buck  hunting 
with  the  scratch  pack  kept  in  those  days  by  the 
garrison  at  Maritzburg.  The  run  had  been  a  good 
one,  and  after  a  seven  or  eight-mile  gallop  over  the 
open  country  they  had  actually  killed  their  buck — 
a  beautiful  Oribe.  This  was  a  thing  that  did  not 
often  happen,  and  Bottles  returned  filled  with  joy 
and  pride  with  the  buck  fastened  behind  his  saddle, 
for  he  was  whip  to  the  pack.  The  hounds  had  met 
at  dawn,  and  it  was  nine  o'clock  or  so,  when,  as 
he  was  riding  hot  and  tired  up  the  shadier  side  of 
broad  and  dusty  Church  Street,  a  gun  fired  at  the 
Fort  beyond  Government  House  announced  the 
arrival  of  the  English  mail. 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  91 

With  a  beaming  smile — for  to  him  the  English 
mail  meant  one  if  not  two  letters  from  Madeline, 
and  possibly  the  glad  news  of  sailing  orders — he 
pushed  on  to  his  quarters,  tubbed  and  dressed,  and 
then  went  down  to  the  mess-house  for  breakfast, 
expecting  to  find  the  letters  delivered.  But  the  mail 
was  a  heavy  one,  and  he  had  ample  time  to  eat  his 
breakfast,  also  to  sit  and  smoke  a  pipe  upon  the 
pleasant  veranda  under  the  shade  of  the  bamboos 
and  camellia  bushes  before  the  orderly  arrived  with 
the  bag.  Bottles  went  at  once  into  the  room  that 
opened  on  to  the  veranda  and  stood  by  calmly,  not 
being  given  to  betraying  his  emotions,  while  slowly 
and  clumsily  the  mess  sergeant  sorted  the  letters. 
At  last  he  got  his  packet — it  only  consisted  of  some 
newspapers  and  a  single  letter — and  went  away  back 
to  his  seat  on  the  veranda,  feeling  rather  disap- 
pointed, for  he  had  expected  to  hear  from  his  only 
brother  as  well  as  from  his  lady-love.  Having  relit 
his  pipe — for  he  was  of  a  slow  and  deliberate  mind, 
and  it  rather  enhances  a  pleasure  to  defer  it  a  little — 
and  settled  himself  in  the  big  chair  opposite  the 
camellia  bush  just  now  covered  with  sealing-wax- 
like  blooms,  he  opened  his  letter  and  read : — 

"My  dear  George — " 

"Good  heavens!"  he  thought  to  himself,  "what 
can  be  the  matter?  She  always  calls  me  'Darling 
Bottles !' " 

"My  dear  George,"  he  began  again,  "I  hardly 
know  how  to  begin  this  letter — I  can  scarcely  see  the 
paper  for  crying,  and  when  I  think  of  you  reading 
it  out  in  that  horrid  country  it  makes  me  cry  more 


92  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

than  ever.  There !  I  may  as  well  get  it  out  at  once, 
for  it  does  not  improve  by  keeping — it  is  all  over 
between  you  and  me,  my  dear,  dear  old  Bottles." 

"All  over !"  he  gasped  to  himself. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  the  miserable  story," 
went  on  the  letter,  "but  as  it  must  be  told  I  suppose 
I  had  better  begin  at  the  beginning.  A  month  ago 
I  went  with  my  father  and  my  aunt  to  the  Hunt 
Ball  at  Atherton,  and  there  I  met  Sir  Alfred  Croston, 
a  middle-aged  gentleman,  who  danced  with  me  sev- 
eral times.  I  did  not  care  about  him  much,  but  he 
made  himself  very  agreeable,  and  when  I  got  home 
aunt — you  know  her  nasty  way — congratulated  me 
on  my  conquest.  Well,  next  day  he  came  to  call, 
and  papa  asked  him  to  stop  to  dinner,  and  he  took 
me  in,  and  before  he  went  away  he  told  me  that  he 
was  coming  to  stop  at  the  George  Inn  to  fish  for 
trout  in  the  lake.  After  that  he  came  here  every  day, 
and  whenever  I  went  out  walking  he  always  met  me, 
and  really  was  kind  and  nice.  At  last  one  day  he 
asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  was  very  angry  and 
told  him  that  I  was  engaged  to  a  gentleman  in  the 
army,  who  was  in  South  Africa.  He  laughed,  and 
said  South  Africa  was  a  long  way  off,  and  I  hated 
him  for  it.  That  evening  papa  and  aunt  set  on  me — 
you  know  they  neither  of  them  like  our  engage- 
ment— and  told  me  that  our  affair  was  perfectly  silly, 
and  that  I  must  be  mad  to  refuse  such  an  offer.  And 
so  it  went  on,  for  he  would  not  take  'no*  for  an 
answer ;  and  at  last,  dear,  I  had  to  give  in,  for  they 
gave  me  no  peace,  and  papa  implored  me  to  consent 
for  his  sake.  He  said  the  marriage  would  be  the 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  93 

making  of  him,  and  now  I  suppose  I  am  engaged. 
Dear,  dear  George,  don't  be  angry  with  me,  for  it 
is  not  my  fault,  and  I  suppose  after  all  we  could  not 
have  got  married,  for  we  have  so  little  money.  I 
do  love  you,  but  I  can't  help  myself.  I  hope  you 
won't  forget  me,  or  marry  anybody  else — at  least, 
not  just  at  present — for  I  cannot  bear  to  think  about 
it.  Write  to  me  and  tell  me  you  won't  forget  me,  and 
that  you  are  not  angry  with  me.  Do  you  want  your 
letters  back  ?  If  you  burn  mine  that  will  do.  Good- 
bye, dear!  If  you  only  knew  what  I  suffer!  It  is 
all  very  well  to  talk  like  aunt  does  about  settlements 
and  diamonds,  but  they  can't  make  up  to  me  for  you. 
Good-bye,  dear,  I  cannot  write  any  more  because 
my  head  aches  so. — Ever  yours, 

"MADELINE  SPENSER." 

When  George  Peritt,  alias  Bottles,  had  finished 
reading  and  re-reading  this  letter,  he  folded  it  up 
neatly  and  put  it,  after  his  methodical  fashion,  into 
his  pocket.  Then  he  sat  and  stared  at  the  red 
camellia  blooms  before  him,  that  somehow  looked 
as  indistinct  and  misty  as  though  they  were  fifty 
yards  off  instead  of  so  many  inches. 

"It  is  a  great  blow,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Poor 
Madeline !  How  she  must  suffer !" 

Presently  he  rose  and  walked — rather  unsteadily, 
for  he  felt  much  upset — to  his  quarters,  and,  taking 
a  sheet  of  notepaper,  wrote  the  following  letter  to 
catch  the  outgoing  mail : — 

"My  DEAR  MADELINE, — I  have  got  your  letter 
putting  an  end  to  our  engagement.  I  don't  want  to 


94  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

dwell  on  myself  when  you  must  have  so  much  to 
suffer,  but  I  must  say  that  it  has  been,  and  is,  a  great 
blow  to  me.  I  have  loved  you  for  so  many  years, 
ever  since  we  were  babies,  I  think;  it  does  seem  hard 
to  lose  you  now  after  all.  I  thought  that  when  we 
got  home  I  might  get  the  adjutancy  of  a  militia 
regiment,  and  that  we  might  have  been  married.  I 
think  we  might  have  managed  on  five  hundred  a 
year,  though  perhaps  I  have  no  right  to  expect  you 
to  give  up  comforts  and  luxuries  to  which  you  are 
accustomed ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  when  one  is  in  love 
one  is  apt  to  be  selfish.  However,  all  that  is  done 
with  now,  as,  of  course,  putting  everything  else 
aside,  I  could  not  think  of  standing  in  your  way  of 
life.  I  love  you  much  too  well  for  that,  dear  Made- 
line, and  you  are  too  beautiful  and  delicate  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  poor  subaltern  with  little  beside  his  pay. 
I  can  honestly  say  that  I  hope  you  will  be  happy.  I 
don't  ask  you  to  think  of  me  too  often,  as  that  might 
make  you  less  so,  but  perhaps  sometimes  when  you 
are  quiet  you  will  spare  your  old  lover  a  thought  or 
two,  because  I  am  sure  nobody  could  care  for  you 
more  than  I  do.  You  need  not  be  afraid  that  I  shall 
forget  you  or  marry  anybody  else.  I  shall  do  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  I  must  close  this  now  to  catch 
the  mail ;  I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  more 
to  say.  It  is  a  hard  trial — very;  but  it  is  no  good 
being  weak  and  giving  way,  and  it  consoles  me  a 
little  to  think  that  you  are  'bettering  yourself  as  the 
servants  say.  Good-bye,  dear  Madeline.  May  God 
bless  you,  is  now  and  ever  my  earnest  prayer. 

"J.  G.  PERITT." 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  95 

Scarcely  was  this  letter  finished  and  hastily 
dispatched  when  a  loud  voice  was  heard  calling, 
"Bottles,  Bottles,  my  boy,  come  rejoice  with  me; 
the  orders  have  come — we  sail  in  a  fortnight;"  fol- 
lowed by  the  owner  of  the  voice,  another  subaltern, 
and  our  hero's  bosom  friend.  "Why,  you  don't 
seem  very  elated,"  said  he  of  the  voice,  noting  his 
friend's  dejected  and  somewhat  dazed  appearance. 

"No — that  is,  not  particularly.  So  you  sail  in  a 
fortnight,  do  you?" 

"  *  You  sail  ?'  What  do  you  mean  ?  Why,  we 
all  sail,  of  course,  from  the  colonel  down  to  the 
drummer-boy." 

"I  don't  think  that  I — I  am  going  to  sail,  Jack," 
was  the  hesitating  answer. 

"Look  here,  old  fellow,  are  you  off  your  head,  or 
have  you  been  liquoring  up,  or  what?" 

"No — that  is,  I  don't  think  so;  certainly  not  the 
first — the  second,  I  mean." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that,  in  short,  I  am  sending  in  my  papers. 
I  like  this  climate — I,  in  short,  am  going  to  take  to 
farming." 

"Sending  in  your  papers!  Going  to  take  to 
farming !  And  in  this  God-forsaken  hole,  too.  You 
must  be  screwed." 

"No,  indeed.    It  is  only  ten  o'clock." 

"And  how  about  getting  married,  and  the  girl 
you  are  engaged  to,  and  whom  you  are  looking 
forward  so  much  to  seeing.  Is  she  going  to  take  to 
farming?" 

Bottles  winced  visibly. 


96      ,         THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

"No,  you  see — in  short,  we  have  put  an  end  to 
that.  I  am  not  engaged  now." 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  the  friend,  and  awkwardly 
departed. 


II 

TWELVE  years  have  passed  since  Bottles  sent  in  his 
papers,  and  in  twelve  years  many  things  happen. 
Amongst  them  recently  it  had  happened  that  our 
hero's  only  and  elder  brother  had,  owing  to  an  unex- 
pected development  of  consumption  among  the 
expectant  heirs,  tumbled  into  a  baronetcy  and  eight 
thousand  a  year,  and  Bottles  himself  into  a  modest 
but  to  him  most  ample  fortune  of  as  many  hundreds. 
When  the  news  reached  him  he  was  the  captain  of 
a  volunteer  corps  engaged  in  one  of  the  numerous 
Basuto  wars  in  the  Cape  Colony.  He  served  the 
campaign  out,  and  then,  in  obedience  to  his  brother's 
entreaties  and  a  natural  craving  to  see  his  native 
land,  after  an  absence  of  nearly  fourteen  years, 
resigned  his  commission  and  returned  to  England. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  the  next  scene  of  this 
little  history  opens,  not  upon  the  South  African  veld, 
or  in  a  whitewashed  house  in  some  half-grown, 
hobbledehoy  colonial  town,  but  in  a  set  of  the  most 
comfortable  chambers  in  the  Albany,  the  local  and 
appropriate  habitation  of  the  bachelor  brother  afore- 
said, Sir  Eustace  Peritt. 

In  a  very  comfortable  arm-chair  in  front  of  a 
warm  fire  (for  the  month  is  November)  sits  the 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  97 

Bottles  of  old  days — bigger,  uglier,  shyer  than  ever, 
and,  in  addition,  disfigured  by  an  assegai  wound 
through  the  cheek.  Opposite  to  him,  and  peering  at 
him  occasionally  with  fond  curiosity  through  an  eye- 
glass, is  his  brother,  a  very  different  stamp  of  man. 
Sir  Eustace  Peritt  is  a  well-preserved,  London- 
looking  gentleman,  of  apparently  any  age  between 
thirty  and  fifty.  His  eye  is  so  bright,  his  figure  so 
well  preserved,  that  to  judge  from  appearances  alone 
you  would  put  him  down  at  the  former  age.  But 
when  you  come  to  know  him  so  as  to  be  able  to 
measure  his  consummate  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  to  have  the  opportunity  of  reflecting  upon  the 
good-natured  but  profound  cynicism  which  pleas- 
antly pervades  his  talk  as  absolutely  as  the  flavour  of 
lemon  pervades  rum  punch,  you  would  be  inclined 
to  assign  his  natal  day  to  a  much  earlier  date.  In 
reality  he  was  forty,  neither  more  nor  less,  and  had 
preserved  both  his  youthful  appearance  and  gained 
the  mellowness  of  his  experience  by  a  judicious  use 
of  the  opportunities  of  life. 

"Well,  my  dear  George/'  said  Sir  Eustace,  ad- 
dressing his  brother — determined  to  take  this  occa- 
sion of  meeting  after  so  long  a  time  to  be  rid  of  the 
nickname  "Bottles,"  which  he  hated— "I  haven't  had 
such  a  pleasure  for  years." 

"As— as  what?" 

"As  meeting  you  again,  of  course.  When  I  saw 
you  on  the  vessel  I  knew  you  at  once.  You  have 
not  changed  at  all,  unless  expansion  can  be  called  a 
change." 

"Nor  have  you,  Eustace,  unless  contraction  can  be 


98  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

called  a  change.  Your  waist  used  to  be  bigger,  you 
know." 

"Ah,  George,  I  drank  beer  in  those  days;  it  is 
one  of  those  things  of  which  I  have  lived  to  see  the 
folly.  In  fact,  there  are  not  many  things  of  which 
I  have  not  lived  to  see  the  folly." 

"Except  living  itself,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Exactly — except  living.  I  have  no  wish  to  fol- 
low the  example  of  our  poor  cousins."  he  answered 
with  a  sigh,  "to  whose  considerate  behaviour,  how- 
ever," he  added,  brightening,  "we  owe  our  present 
improved  position." 

Then  came  a  pause. 

"Fourteen  years  is  a  long  time,  George ;  you  must 
have  had  a  rough  time  of  it." 

"Yes,  pretty  rough.  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of 
irregular  service,  you  know." 

"And  never  got  anything  out  of  it,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  have  got  my  bread  and  butter,  which 
is  all  I  am  worth." 

Sir  Eustace  looked  at  his  brother  doubtfully 
through  his  eyeglass.  "You  are  modest,"  he  said; 
"that  does  not  do.  You  must  have  a  better  opinion 
of  yourself  if  you  want  to  get  on  in  the  world." 

"I  don't  want  to  get  on.  I  am  quite  content  to 
earn  a  living,  and  I  am  modest  because  I  have  seen 
so  many  better  men  fare  worse." 

"But  now  you  need  not  earn  a  living  any  more. 
What  do  you  propose  to  do?  Live  in  town?  I  can 
set  you  going  in  a  very  good  lot.  You  will  be  quite 
a  lion  with  that  hole  in  your  cheek — by  the  way,  you 
must  tell  me  the  story.  And  then,  you  see,  if  any- 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  99 

thing  happens  to  me  you  stand  in  for  the  title  and 
estates.  That  will  be  quite  enough  to  float  you." 

Bottles  writhed  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "Thank 
you,  Eustace;  but  really  I  must  ask  you — in  short, 
I  don't  want  to  be  floated  or  anything  of  the  sort. 
I  would  rather  go  back  to  South  Africa  and  my 
volunteer  corps.  I  would  indeed.  I  hate  strangers, 
and  society,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I'm  not  fit 
for  it  like  you." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  to  do — get  married  and 
live  in  the  country?" 

Bottles  coloured  a  little  through  his  sun-tanned 
skin — a  fact  that  did  not  escape  the  eyeglass  of  his 
observant  brother.  "No,  I  am  not  going  to  get  mar- 
ried, certainly  not." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Sir  Eustace  carelessly,  "I  saw 
your  old  flame,  Lady  Croston,  yesterday,  and  told 
her  you  were  coming  home.  She  makes  a  charming 
widow." 

"What!"  ejaculated  his  brother,  slowly  raising 
himself  out  of  his  chair  in  his  astonishment.  "Is  her 
husband  dead  ?" 

"Dead?  Yes,  died  a  year  ago,  and  a  good  rid- 
dance too.  He  appointed  me  one  of  his  executors ;  I 
am  sure  I  don't  know  why,  for  we  never  liked  each 
other.  I  think  he  was  the  most  disagreeable  fellow 
I  ever  knew.  They  say  he  gave  his  wife  a  roughisb 
time  of  it  occasionally.  Serve  her  right,  too." 

"Why  did  it  serve  her  right?" 

Sir  Eustace  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"When  a  heartless  girl  jilts  the  fellow  she  is 
engaged  to  in  order  to  sell  herself  to  an  elderly  beast, 


loo  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

I  think  she  deserves  all  she  gets.  This  one  did  not 
get  half  enough ;  indeed,  she  has  made  a  good  thing 
of  it — better  than  she  expected." 

His  brother  sat  down  again  before  he  answered 
in  a  constrained  voice,  "Don't  you  think  you  are 
rather  hard  on  her,  Eustace  ?" 

"Hard  on  her?  No,  not  a  bit  of  it.  Of  all  the 
worthless  women  that  I  know,  I  think  Madeline 
Croston  is  the  most  worthless.  Look  how  she 
treated  you." 

"Eustace,"  broke  in  his  brother  almost  sharply, 
"if  you  don't  mind,  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  of 
her  like  that  to  me.  I  can't — in  short,  I  don't 
like  it." 

Sir  Eustace's  eyeglass  dropped  out  of  Sir 
Eustace's  eye — he  had  opened  it  so  wide  to  stare  at 
his  brother.  "Why,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  ejaculated, 
"you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  still  care  for  that 
woman  ?" 

His  brother  twisted  his  great  form  about  uncom- 
fortably in  the  low  chair  as  he  answered,  "I  don't 
know,  I'm  sure,  about  caring  for  her,  but  I  don't 
like  to  hear  you  say  such  things  about  her." 

Sir  Eustace  whistled  softly.  "I  am  sorry  if  I 
offended  you,  old  fellow,"  he  said.  "I  had  no  idea 
that  it  was  still  a  sore  point  with  you.  You  must  be  a 
faithful  people  in  South  Africa.  Here  the  'holy  feel- 
ings of  the  heart'  are  shorter  lived.  We  wear  out 
several  generations  of  them  in  twelve  years." 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  :  ioi 


III 

BOTTLES  did  not  go  to  bed  till  late  that  night.  Long 
after  Sir  Eustace — who,  always  careful  of  his  health, 
never  stopped  up  late  if  he  could  avoid  it — had 
vanished,  yawning,  his  brother  sat  smoking  pipe 
after  pipe  and  thinking.  He  had  sat  many  times  in 
the  same  way  on  a  wagon-box  in  the  African  veld, 
or  up  where  the  moonlight  turned  the  falls  of  the 
Zambesi  into  a  rushing  cataract  of  silver,  or  alone 
in  his  tent  when  all  the  camp  was  sleeping  round 
him.  It  was  a  habit  of  this  queer,  silent  man  to  sit 
and  think  for  hours  at  night,  and  arose  to  a  great 
extent  from  an  incapacity  to  sleep,  that  was  the  weak 
point  in  his  constitution. 

As  for  his  meditations,  they  were  various,  but 
mostly  the  outcome  of  a  curious  speculative  side  to 
his  nature,  which  he  never  revealed  to  the  outside 
world.  Dreams  of  a  happiness  of  which  heretofore 
his  hard  life  had  given  him  no  glimpse;  semi- 
mystical,  religious  meditations  upon  the  great  un- 
known around  us ;  and  grand  schemes  for  the  regen- 
eration of  mankind — all  formed  part  of  them. 

But  there  was  one  central  thought,  the  fixed  star 
of  his  mind,  round  which  all  the  others  continually 
revolved,  taking  their  light  and  colour  from  it,  and 
that  was  the  thought  of  Madeline  Croston,  the 
woman  to  whom  he  had  been  engaged.  Years  and 
years  had  passed  since  he  had  seen  her  face,  and 


102        t>:;  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

yet  it  was  always  present  to  him.  Beyond  the 
occasional  mention  of  her  name  in  some  society 
paper — several  of  which,  by  the  way,  he  took  in  for 
years  and  conscientiously  searched  on  the  chance  of 
finding  it — till  this  evening  he  had  never  even  seen 
it  or  heard  it  spoken;  and  yet  with  all  the  tenacity 
of  his  strong,  deep  nature  he  clung  to  her  dear 
memory.  That  she  had  left  him  to  marry  another 
man  weighed  as  nothing  in  the  balance  of  his  love. 
Once  she  had  loved  him,  and  thereby  he  was  repaid 
for  the  devotion  of  his  life.  He  had  no  ambitions. 
Madeline  had  been  his  great  ambition;  and  when 
that  had  fallen,  all  the  others  had  fallen  with  it,  even 
to  the  dust.  He  simply  did  his  duty,  whatever  it 
might  be,  as  well  as  in  him  lay,  without  fear  of  blame 
or  hope  of  praise — shunning  men,  and  never,  if  he 
could  avoid  it,  speaking  to  a  woman,  content  to  earn 
his  livelihood,  and  for  the  rest  rendered  colourless  by 
his  secret  and  pathetic  passion. 

And  now  it  appeared  that  Madeline  was  a  widow, 
which  meant — and  his  heart  beat  fast  at  the  thought 
— that  she  was  a  free  woman.  Madeline  was  a  free 
woman,  and  he  was  within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of 
her.  No  thousands  of  miles  of  ocean  rolled  between 
them  now.  He  rose,  went  to  the  table,  and  consulted 
a  Red  Book  that  lay  on  it.  There  was  the  address — 
a  house  in  Grosvenor  Street.  Overcome  by  an  un- 
controllable impulse,  he  went  out  of  the  room. 
Going  to  his  own  he  found  his  mackintosh  and  a 
round  hat,  and  softly  left  the  house.  It  was  then 
past  two  in  the  morning,  pouring  with  rain,  and 
blowing  hard. 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  103 

He  had  been  a  little  in  London  as  a  lad  and  re- 
membered the  main  thoroughfares,  so  had  no  great 
difficulty  in  finding  his  way  up  Piccadilly  till  he 
came  to  Park  Lane,  into  which  the  Red  Book  told 
him  Grosvenor  Street  opened.  But  to  find  Grosvenor 
Street  itself  was  a  more  difficult  matter,  and  at  such 
a  time  on  such  a  night  there  was  naturally  nobody 
to  ask — least  of  all  a  policeman.  At  last  he  found 
it,  and  hurried  on  down  the  street  with  a  quickening 
pulse.  What  he  was  hurrying  to  he  could  not  tell, 
but  that  over-mastering  impulse  forced  him  on 
quicker  and  quicker  yet. 

Suddenly  he  halted,  and  examined  the  number  of 
one  of  the  houses  by  the  faint  and  struggling  light 
from  the  nearest  lamp.  It  was  her  house ;  now  there 
was  nothing  between  them  but  a  few  feet  of  space 
and  fourteen  inches  of  brickwork.  He  crossed  over 
to  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  looked  up  at  the 
house,  but  could  scarcely  make  it  out  through  the 
driving  rain.  There  was  no  light  in  the  house,  and 
no  sign  of  life  about  the  street.  But  there  were  both 
light  and  life  in  the  heart  of  this  watcher.  All  the 
pulses  of  his  blood  were  astir,  keeping  time  with  the 
commotion  of  his  mind.  He  stood  there  in  the 
shadow,  gazing  at  the  murky  house,  heedless  of  the 
bitter  wind  and  pelting  rain,  and  felt  his  life  and 
spirit  pass  out  of  his  control  into  an  unknown 
dominion.  The  storm  that  raged  around  him  was 
nothing  to  the  convulsion  of  his  inner  self  in  that 
hour  of  madness,  which  was  yet  happiness.  Yet  as 
it  had  arisen  thus  suddenly,  so  with  equal  swiftness 
it  died  away,  and  left  him  standing  there  with  a  chill 


104  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

sense  of  folly  in  his  mind  and  of  the  bitter  weather 
in  his  body;  for  on  such  a  night  a  mackintosh  and 
a  dress  coat  were  not  adapted  to  keep  the  most  ardent 
lover  warm.  He  shivered,  and  turning,  made  his 
way  back  to  the  Albany,  feeling  heartily  ashamed  of 
himself  and  his  midnight  expedition,  and  heartily 
glad  that  no  one  knew  of  it  except  himself. 

On  the  following  day  Bottles — for  convenience 
sake  we  still  call  him  by  his  old  nickname — was 
obliged  to  see  a  lawyer  with  reference  to  the  money 
which  he  had  inherited,  and  to  search  for  a  box 
which  had  gone  astray  aboard  the  steamer;  also  to 
buy  a  tall  hat,  such  as  he  had  not  worn  for  fourteen 
years ;  so  that  between  one  thing  and  another  it  was 
half-past  four  before  he  got  back  to  the  Albany. 
Here  he  donned  the  new  hat,  which  did  not  fit  very 
well,  and  a  new  black  coat  which  fitted  so  well  that 
it  seemed  to  cut  into  his  large  frame  in  every 
possible  direction,  and  departed,  furiously  strug- 
gling with  a  pair  of  gloves,  also  new,  for  Grosvenor 
Street. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk,  for  he  knew  the  road 
this  time,  brought  him  to  the  house.  Glancing  for  a 
second  at  the  spot  where  he  had  stood  on  the  previous 
night,  he  walked  up  the  steps  and  pulled  the  bell. 
Though  he  looked  bold  enough  outwardly — indeed, 
rather  imposing  than  otherwise — with  his  broad 
shoulders  and  the  great  scar  on  his  bronzed  face,  his 
breast  was  full  of  terrors.  In  these,  however,  he  had 
not  much  time  to  indulge,  for  a  footman,  still  decked 
in  the  trappings  of  vicarious  grief,  opened  the  door 
with  the  most  startling  promptitude,  and  he  was 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  105 

ushered  upstairs  into  a  small  but  richly  furnished 
room. 

Madeline  was  not  in  the  room,  though  to  judge 
from  the  lace  handkerchief  lying  on  the  floor  by  a 
low  chair,  and  the  open  novel  on  a  little  wicker  table 
alongside,  she  had  not  left  it  long.  The  footman 
departed,  saying,  in  a  magnificent  undertone,  that 
"her  ladyship"  should  be  informed,  and  left  our  hero 
to  enjoy  his  sensations.  Being  one  of  those  people 
whom  suspense  of  any  sort  makes  fidgety,  he  em- 
ployed himself  in  looking  at  the  pictures  and  china, 
even  going  so  far  as  to  walk  to  a  pair  of  very  heavy 
blue  velvet  curtains  that  apparently  communicated 
with  another  room,  and  peep  through  them  at  a  much 
larger  apartment,  of  which  the  furniture  was  done 
up  in  ghostly-looking  bags. 

Retreating  from  this  melancholy  sight,  finally  he 
took  up  a  position  on  the  hearthrug  and  waited. 
Would  she  be  angry  with  him  for  coming?  he  won- 
rdered.  Would  it  recall  things  she  had  rather  forget  ? 
But  perhaps  she  had  already  forgotten  them — it  was 
so  long  ago.  Would  she  be  very  much  changed? 
Perhaps  he  should  not  know  her.  Perhaps — but 
here  he  happened  to  lift  his  eyes,  and  there,  standing 
between  the  blue  velvet  curtains,  was  Madeline,  now 
a  woman  in  the  full  splendour  of  a  remarkable 
beauty,  and  showing  as  yet,  at  any  rate  in  that  dull 
November  twilight,  no  traces  6f  her  years.  There 
she  stood,  her  large  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  a 
look  of  wistful  curiosity,  her  shapely  lips  just  parted 
to  speak,  and  her  bosom  gently  heaving,  as  though 
with  trouble. 


io6  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

Poor  Bottles !  One  look  was  enough.  There  was 
no  chance  of  his  attaining  the  blessed  haven  of  dis- 
illusionment. In  five  seconds  he  was  farther  out  to 
sea  than  ever.  When  she  knew  that  he  had  seen  her 
she  dropped  her  eyelids  a  little — he  saw  the  long 
curved  lashes  appear  against  her  cheek,  and  moved 
forward. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said  softly,  extending  her 
slim,  cool  hand. 

He  took  the  hand  and  shook  it,  but  for  the  life  of 
him  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  Not  one  of  the 
little  speeches  he  had  prepared  would  come  into  his 
mind.  Yet  the  desperate  necessity  of  saying  some- 
thing forced  itself  upon  him. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  ejaculated  with  a  jerk.  "It 
—it's  very  cold,  isn't  it?" 

This  remark  was  such  an  utter  and  ludicrous  fiasco 
that  Lady  Croston  could  not  choose  but  laugh  a  little. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  "that  you  have  not  got  over  your 
shyness." 

"It  is  a  long  while  since  we  met,"  he  blurted  out. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  was  her  simple 
answer.  "Now  sit  down  and  talk  to  me ;  tell  me  all 
about  yourself.  Stop;  before  you  begin — how  very 
curious  it  is  \  Do  you  know  I  dreamed  about  you  last 
night — such  a  curious,  painful  dream.  I  dreamed 
that  I  was  asleep  in  my  room — which  indeed  I  was — 
and  that  it  was  blowing  a  gale  and  raining  in  torrents 
— which  I  believe  it  was  also — so  there  is  nothing 
very  wonderful  about  that.  But  now  comes  the  odd 
part.  I  dreamed  that  you  were  standing  out  in  the 
rain  and  wind  and  yet  looking  at  me  as  though  you 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  107 

saw  me.  I  could  not  see  your  face  because  you  were 
in  the  dark,  but  I  knew  it  was  you.  Then  I  woke  up 
with  a  start.  It  was  a  most  vivid  dream.  And  now 
to-day  you  have  come  to  see  me  after  all  these 
years/' 

He  shifted  his  legs  uneasily.  Considering  the  facts 
of  the  case,  her  dream  frightened  him,  which  was  not 
strange. 

Fortunately,  at  that  moment  the  impressive  foot- 
man arrived  with  the  tea-things  and  asked  whether 
he  should  light  the  lamps. 

"No,"  said  Lady  Croston ;  "put  some  wood  on  the 
fire."  She  knew  that  she  looked  her  very  best  in 
those  half-lights. 

Then,  when  she  had  given  him  the  tea,  delighting 
him  by  remembering  that  he  did  not  like  sugar,  she 
fell  to  drawing  him  out  about  the  wild  life  he  had 
been  leading. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said  presently,  "perhaps  you 
can  tell  me — a  few  days  ago  I  bought  a  book  for  my 
boy" — she  had  two  children — "all  about  brave  deeds 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  in  it  there  was  a  story  of  a 
volunteer  officer  in  South  Africa  (the  name  was 
not  mentioned)  which  inerested  me  very  much. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  it  ?  It  was  this :  The  officer 
was  in  command  of  a  fort  containing  a  force  that  was 
operating  against  a  native  chief.  While  he  was  away 
the  chief  sent  a  flag  of  truce  down  to  the  fort,  which 
was  fired  on  by  some  of  the  volunteers  in  the  fort, 
because  there  was  a  man  among  the  truce  party 
against  whom  they  had  a  spite.  Just  afterwards  the 
officer  returned,  and  was  very  angry  that  such  a  thing 


- 

io8  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

should  have  been  done  by  Englishmen,  whose  duty  it 
was,  he  said,  to  teach  all  the  world  what  honour 
meant. 

"Now  comes  the  brave  part  of  the  story.  Without 
saying  any  more,  and  notwithstanding  the  entreaties 
of  his  men,  who  knew  that  in  all  probability  he  was 
jgoing  to  a  death  by  torture,  for  he  was  so  brave  that 
the  natives  had  set  a  great  price  upon  him,  wishing 
to  kill  him  and  use  his  body  for  medicine,  which 
they  thought  would  make  them  as  brave  as  he  was, 
that  officer  rode  out  far  away  into  the  mountains  with 
only  an  interpreter  and  a  white  handkerchief,  till  he 
came  to  the  chief's  stronghold.  But  when  the  natives 
saw  him  coming,  holding  up  his  white  handkerchief, 
they  did  not  fire  at  him  as  his  men  had  fired  at  them, 
because  they  were  so  astonished  at  his  bravery  that 
they  thought  he  must  be  mad  or  inspired.  So  he 
came  straight  on  to  the  walls  of  the  stronghold,  called 
to  the  chief  and  begged  his  pardon  for  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  then  rode  away  again  unharmed.  Shortly 
afterwards,  the  chief,  having  captured  some  of  the 
officer's  volunteers,  whom  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
affairs  he  would  have  tortured  to  death,  sent  them 
back  again  untouched,  with  a  message  to  the  effect 
that  he  would  show  the  English  officer  that  he  was 
not  the  only  man  who  could  behave  'like  a  gentle- 
man.' I  should  like  to  know  that  man.  Do  you 
know  who  he  was?" 

Bottles  looked  uncomfortable,  as  well  he  might, 
for  it  was  an  incident  in  his  own  career;  but  her 
praise  and  enthusiasm  sent  a  flush  of  pride  into  his 
face. 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  109 

"I  believe  it  was  some  fellow  in  the  Basuto  War/' 
he  said,  prevaricating  with  peculiar  awkwardness. 

"Oh,  then  it  is  a  true  story  ?" 

"Yes — that  is,  it  is  partially  true.  There  was 
nothing  heroic  about.  It  was  a  necessary  act  if  our 
honour  as  fair  opponents  was  to  continue  to  be  worth 
anything/' 

"But  who  was  the  man?"  she  asked,  fixing  her 
dark  eyes  on  him  suspiciously. 

"The  man !"  he  stammered.  "Oh,  the  man — well, 
in  short — "  and  he  stopped. 

"In  short,  George"  she  put  in,  for  the  first  time 
calling  him  by  his  Christian  name,  "that  man  was 
you,  and  I  am  so  proud  of  you,  George." 

It  was  very  hateful  to  him  in  a  way,  for  he  loathed 
that  kind  of  personal  adulation,  even  from  her.  He 
was  so  intensely  modest  he  had  never  even  reported 
the  incident  in  question;  it  had  come  out  in  some 
roundabout  way.  Yet  he  could  not  but  feel  happy 
that  she  had  found  him  out.  It  was  a  great  deal  to 
him  to  have  moved  her,  and  her  sp-arkling  eyes  and 
heaving  bosom  showed  that  she  was  somewhat 
moved. 

He  looked  up  and  his  eyes  caught  hers ;  the  room 
was  nearly  dark  now,  but  the  bright  flame  from  the 
wood  the  servant  had  put  on  the  fire  played  upon  her 
face.  His  eyes  caught  hers,  and  there  was  a  look  in 
them  from  which  he  could  not  escape,  even  if  he  had 
wished  to  do  so.  She  had  thrown  her  head  back  so 
that  the  coronet  of  glossy  hair  rested  upon  the  back 
of  her  low  seat,  and  thus,  without  strain,  could  look 
straight  up  into  his  face.  He  had  risen,  and  was 


no  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

standing  by  the  mantelpiece.  A  slow,  sweet  smile 
grew  upon  the  perfect  face,  and  the  dark  eyes  became 
soft  and  luminous  as  though  they  shone  through 
tears. 

In  another  second  it  had  ended,  as  she  thought 
that  it  would  end  and  had  intended  that  it  should 
end.  The  great  strong  man  was  down — yes,  down 
on  his  knees  before  her,  one  trembling  hand  catch- 
ing at  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  the  other  clasping 
her  tapering  fingers.  There  was  no  hesitation  or 
awkwardness  about  him  now,  the  greatness  of  his 
long-pent  passion  inspired  him,  and  he  told  her  all 
without  let  or  stop — all  that  he  had  suffered  for  her 
sake  throughout  those  lonely  years,  all  his  wretched 
hopelessness,  keeping  nothing  back. 

Much  she  did  not  understand;  such  a  passion  as 
this  was  too  deep  to  be  fathomed  by  her  shallow  lines, 
too  soaring  for  her  to  net  in  her  world-straitened 
imagination.  Once  or  twice  even  his  exalted  notions 
made  her  smile;  it  seemed  ridiculous,  knowing  the 
world  as  she  did,  that  any  man  should  think  thus  of 
any  woman.  Nor,  when  at  length  he  had  finished, 
did  she  attempt  an  answer,  feeling  that  her  strength 
lay  in  silence,  for  she  had  a  poor  case.  At  least,  the 
only  argument  that  she  used  was  a  purely  feminine 
one,  but  perfectly  effective.  She  bent  her  beautiful 
face  towards  him,  and  he  kissed  it  again  and  again. 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  in 


IV 

THE  revulsion  of  feeling  experienced  by  Bottles  as 
he  hurried  back  to  the  Albany  to  dress  for  dinner — 
for  he  was  to  dine  with  his  brother  at  one  of  his  clubs 
that  night — was  so  extraordinary  and  overwhelming 
that  it  took  him,  figuratively  speaking,  off  his  legs. 
As  yet  his  mind,  so  long  accustomed  to  perpetual  mis- 
fortune in  this,  the  ruling  passion  of  his  life,  could 
not  quite  grasp  his  luck.  That  he  should,  after  all, 
have  won  back  his  lost  Madeline  seemed  altogether 
too  good  to  be  true. 

As  it  happened,  Sir  Eustace  had  asked  one  or  two 
men  to  meet  him,  amongst  them  an  Under-Secretary 
for  the  Colonies,  who,  having  to  prepare  for  a  severe 
cross-examination  in  the  House  upon  South  African 
affairs,  had  jumped  at  the  opportunity  of  sucking  the 
brains  of  a  man  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  sub- 
ject. But  the  expectant  Under-Secretary  was  des- 
tined to  meet  with  a  grievous  disappointment,  for  out 
of  Bottles  came  no  good  thing.  For  the  most  part  of 
the  dinner  he  sat  silent,  only  speaking  when  directly 
addressed,  and  then  answering  so  much  at  random 
that  the  Under-Secretary  quickly  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  Sir  Eustace's  brother  was  either  a  fool  or 
that  he  had  drunk  too  much. 

Sir  Eustace  himself  saw  that  his  brother's  taciturn- 
ity had  spoilt  his  little  dinner,  and  his  temper  was  not 
improved  thereby.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  have 
his  dinners  spoiled,  and  felt  that,  so  far  as  the  Under- 


H2  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

Secretary  was  concerned,  he  had  put  himself  into  a 
false  position. 

"My  dear  George/'  he  said  in  a  tone  of  bland  exas- 
peration when  they  had  got  back  to  the  Albany,  "I 
wonder  what  can  be  the  matter  with  you?  I  told 
Atherleigh  that  you  would  be  able  to  post  him  up 
thoroughly  about  all  this  Bechuana  mess,  and  he 
could  not  get  a  word  out  of  you." 

His  brother  absently  filled  his  pipe  before  he 
answered : 

"The  Bechuanas  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  about  them. 
I  lived  among  them  for  a  year." 

"Then  why  on  earth  didn't  you  tell  him  what  you 
knew?  You  put  me  in  rather  a  false  position." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Eustace,"  he  answered  humbly. 
"I  will  go  and  see  him  if  you  like,  and  explain  the 
thing  to  him  to-morrow.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I 
was  thinking  of  something  else." 

Sir  Eustace  interrogated  him  with  a  look. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "about 
Mad — about  Lady  Croston." 

"Oh!" 

"I  went  to  see  her  this  afternoon,  and  I  think,  I 
hope,  that  I  am  going  to  marry  her." 

If  Bottles  expected  that  this  great  news  would  be 
received  by  his  elder  brother  as  such  news  ought  to 
be  received — with  congratulatory  rejoicing — he  was 
destined  to  be  disappointed. 

"Good  heavens!"  ejaculated  Sir  Eustace  shortly, 
letting  his  eyeglass  drop. 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Eustace?"  Bottles  asked 
uneasily. 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  113 

"Because — because,"  answered  his  brother  in  the 
emphatic  tone  which  was  his  equivalent  for  strong 
language,  "you  must  be  mad  to  think  of  such  a 
thing/5 

"Why  must  I  be  mad  ?" 

"Because  you,  still  a  young  man,  with  all  your  life 
before  you,  deliberately  propose  to  tie  yourself  up  to 
a  middle-aged  and  passee  woman — she  is  extremely 
passee  by  daylight,  let  me  tell  you — who  has  already 
treated  you  like  a  dog,  and  is  burdened  with  a  couple 
of  children,  and  who,  if  she  marries  again,  will  bring 
you  very  little  except  her  luxurious  tastes.  But  I 
expected  this.  I  thought  she  would  try  to  catch  you 
with  those  languishing  black  eyes  of  hers.  You  are 
not  the  first ;  I  know  her  of  old." 

"If,"  said  his  brother,  rising  in  dudgeon,  "you  are 
going  to  abuse  Madeline  to  me,  I  think  I  had  better 
say  good  night,  for  we  shall  quarrel — which  I  would 
not  do  for  anything." 

Sir  Eustace  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Those 
whom  the  gods  wish  to  destroy  they  first  make  mad," 
he  muttered,  as  he  lit  his  hand  candle.  "This  is  what 
comes  of  a  course  of  South  Africa." 

But  Sir.  Eustace  was  an  amenable  man.  His 
favourite  motto  was  "Live  and  let  live" ;  and  having 
given  the  matter  his  best  consideration  during  the 
lengthy  process  of  shaving  himself  on  the  following 
morning,  he  came  to  the  conclusion,  reluctantly 
enough  it  must  be  owned,  that  it  was  evident  that 
his  brother  meant  to  have  his  own  way,  and  therefore 
the  best  thing  to  be  done  was  to  fall  in  with  his  views 
and  trust  to  the  chapter  of  accidents  to  bring  the 


ii4  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

thing  to  naught.  Sir  Eustace,  for  all  his  apparent 
worldliness  and  cynicism,  was  a  good  fellow  at  heart, 
and  cherished  a  warm  affection  for  his  awkward, 
taciturn  brother.  He  also  cherished  a  great  dislike 
and  contempt  for  Lady  Croston,  whose  character  he 
thoroughly  understood.  He  saw  a  good  deal  of  her, 
it  is  true,  because  he  happened  to  be  one  of  the  execu- 
tors of  her  husband's  will;  and  since  he  had  come 
into  the  baronetcy  it  had  struck  him  that  she  had  de- 
veloped a  considerable  partiality  for  his  society. 

The  idea  of  a  marriage  between  his  brother  and  his 
brother's  old  flame  was  in  every  way  distasteful  to 
him.  In  the  first  place,  under  her  husband's  will, 
Madeline  would  bring,  comparatively  speaking,  very 
little  with  her  should  she  marry  again.  That  was 
one  objection.  Another,  and  still  more  forcible  one 
from  Sir  Eustace's  point  of  view,  was  that  at  her 
time  of  life  she  was  not  likely  to  present  the  house  of 
Peritt  with  an  heir.  Now,  Sir  Eustace  had  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  marrying.  Matrimony  was,  he 
considered,  an  excellent  institution,  and  necessary  to 
the  carrying  on  the  world  in  a  respectable  manner, 
but  it  was  not  one  with  which  he  was  anxious  to  iden- 
tify himself.  Therefore,  if  his  brother  married  at 
all,  it  was  his  earnest  desire  that  the  union  should 
bring  children  to  inherit  the  title  and  estates.  Prom- 
inent above  both  these  excellent  reasons,  how- 
ever, stood  his  intense  distrust  and  dislike  of  the 
lady. 

Needs  must,  however,  when  the  devil  (by  whom  he 
understood  Madeline)  drives.  He  was  not  going  to 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  115 

quarrel  with  his  only  brother  and  presumptive  heir 
because  he  chose  to  marry  a  woman  who  was  not  to 
his  taste.  So  he  shrugged  his  shoulders — having  fin- 
ished his  shaving  and  his  reflections  together — and 
determined  to  put  the  best  possible  face  on  his  disap- 
pointment. 

"Well,  George,"  he  said  to  his  brother  at  breakfast, 
"so  you  are  going  to  marry  Lady  Croston  ?" 

Bottles  looked  up  surprised.  "Yes,  Eustace,"  he 
answered,  "if  she  will  marry  me." 

Sir  Eustace  glanced  at  him.  "I  thought  the  affair 
was  settled,"  he  said. 

Bottles  rubbed  his  big  nose  reflectively  as  he  an- 
swered, "Well,  no.  I  don't  think  that  marriage  was 
mentioned.  But  I  suppose  she  means  to  marry  me. 
In  short,  I  don't  see  how  she  could  mean  anything 
else." 

Sir  Eustace  breathed  more  freely,  guessing  what 
had  taken  place.  So  there  was  as  yet  no  actual  en- 
gagement. 

"When  are  you  going  to  see  her  again  ?" 

"To-morrow.    She  is  engaged  all  to-day." 

His  brother  took  out  a  pocket-book  and  consulted 
it.  "Then  I  am  more  fortunate  than  you  are,"  he 
said ;  "I  have  an  appointment  with  Lady  Croston  this 
evening  after  dinner.  Don't  look  jealous,  old  fellow, 
it  is  only  about  some  executor's  business.  I  think  I 
told  you  that  I  am  one  of  her  husband's  executors, 
blessings  on  his  memory.  She  is  a  peculiar  woman, 
your  inamorata,  and  swears  that  she  won't  trust  her 
lawyer,  so  I  have  to  do  all  the  dirty  work  myself, 
worse  luck.  You  had  better  come  too." 


:ii6  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

"Shan't  I  be  in  the  way?"  asked  Bottles  doubt- 
fully, struggling  feebly  against  the  bribe. 

"It  is  evident,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  cannot  be 
'de  trop.  I  shall  present  my  papers  for  signature  and 
vanish.  You  ought  to  be  infinitely  obliged  to  me  for 
giving  you  such  a  chance.  We  will  consider  that  set- 
tled. We  will  dine  together,  and  go  round  to  Gros- 
yenor  Street  afterwards." 

Bottles  agreed.  Could  he  have  seen  the  little 
scheme  that  was  dawning  in  his  brother's  brain,  per- 
haps he  would  not  have  assented  so  readily. 

When  her  old  lover  went  away  reluctantly  to  dress 
for  dinner  on  the  previous  day,  Madeline  Croston  sat 
down  to  have  a  good  think,  and  the  result  was  not 
entirely  satisfactory.  It  had  been  very  pleasant  to 
see  him,  and  his  passionate  declaration  of  enduring 
love  thrilled  her  through  and  through,  and  even  woke 
an  echo  in  her  own  breast.  It  made  her  proud  to 
think  that  this  man,  who,  notwithstanding  his  ugli- 
ness and  awkwardness,  was  yet,  her  instinct  told  her, 
worth  half  a  dozen  smart  London  fashionables,  still 
loved  her  and  had  never  ceased  to  love  her.  Poor 
Bottles !  she  had  been  very  fond  of  him  once.  They 
had  grown  up  together,  and  it  really  gave  her  some 
cruel  hours  when  a  sense  of  what  she  owed  to  her- 
self and  her  family  had  forced  her  to  discard  him. 

She  remembered,  as  she  sat  there  this  evening,  how 
at  the  time  she  had  wondered  if  it  was  worth  it — if 
life  would  not  be  brighter  and  happier  if  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  fight  through  it  by  her  honest  lover's 
side.  Well,  she  could  answer  that  question  now.  It 
had  been  well  worth  it.  She  had  not  liked  her  hus- 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  117 

band,  it  is  true;  but  on  the  whole  she  had  enjoyed  a 
good  time  and  plenty  of  money,  and  the  power  that 
money  brings.  The  wisdom  of  her  later  days  had 
confirmed  the  judgment  of  her  youth.  As  regards 
Bottles  himself,  she  had  soon  got  over  that  fancy ;  for 
years  she  had  scarcely  thought  of  him,  till  Sir  Eus- 
tace told  her  that  he  was  coming  home,  and  she  had 
that  curious  dream  about  him.  Now  he  had  come 
and  made  love  to  her,  not  in  a  civilised,  philandering 
sort  of  a  way,  such  as  she  was  accustomed  to,  but 
with  a  passion  and  a  fire  and  an  utter  self-abandon- 
ment which,  while  it  thrilled  her  nerves  with  a  curi- 
ous sensation  of  mingled  pleasure  and  pain,  not  un- 
like that  she  once  experienced  at  a  Spanish  bull-fight 
when  she  saw  a  man  tossed,  was  yet  extremely  awk- 
ward to  deal  with  and  rather  alarming. 

Now,  too,  the  old  question  had  come  up  again,  and 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  She  had  sheered  him  off  the 
question  that  afternoon,  but  he  would  want  to  marry 
her,  she  felt  sure  of  that  If  she  consented,  what 
were  they  to  live  on  ?  Her  own  jointure,  in  the  event 
of  her  re-marriage,  would  be  cut  down  to  a  thousand 
a  year — she  had  four  now,  and  was  pinched  on  that ; 
and  as  for  Bottles,  she  knew  what  he  had — eight 
hundred,  for  Sir  Eustace  had  told  her.  He  was  next 
heir  to  the  baronetcy,  it  was  true,  but  Sir  Eustace 
looked  as  though  he  would  live  for  ever,  and  besides, 
he  might  marry  after  all. 

For  a  few  minutes  Lady  Croston  contemplated  the 
possibility  of  existing  on  eighteen  hundred  a  year, 
and  what  Chancery  would  give  her  as  guardian  of 


ii8  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

her  children  in  a  poky  house  somewhere  down  at 
Kensington.  Soon  she  realised  that  the  thing  was 
not  to  be  done. 

"Unless  Sir  Eustace  will  do  something  for  him,  it 
is  very  clear  that  we  cannot  be  married/'  she  said  to 
herself  with  a  sigh.  "However,  I  need  not  tell  him 
that  just  yet,  or  he  will  be  rushing  back  to  South 
Africa  or  something." 


SIR  EUSTACE  and  his  brother  carried  out  their  pro- 
gramme. They  dined  together,  and  about  half-past 
nine  drove  round  to  Grosvenor  Street.  Here  they 
were  shown  into  the  drawing-room  by  the  solemn 
footman,  who  informed  Sir  Eustace  that  her  ladyship 
was  upstairs  in  the  nursery  and  had  left  a  message 
for  him  that  she  would  be  down  presently. 

"All  right;  there  is  no  hurry,"  said  Sir  Eustace 
absently,  and  the  man  went  downstairs. 

Bottles,  being  nervous,  was  fidgeting  round  the  room 
as  usual,  and  his  brother,  being  very  much  at  ease, 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  staring 
about  him.  Presently  his  glance  lit  upon  the  blue 
velvet  curtains  which  shut  off  the  room  they  were  in 
from  the  larger  saloon  that  had  not  been  used  since 
Lady  Croston's  widowhood,  and  an  idea  which  had 
been  floating  about  in  his  brain  suddenly  took  defi- 
nite shape  and  form.  He  was  a  prompt  man,  and  in 
another  second  he  had  acted  up  to  that  idea. 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  119 

"George,"  he  said  in  a  quick,  low  voice,  "listen  to 
me,  and  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  interrupt  for  a  min- 
ute. You  know  that  I  do  not  like  the  idea  of  your 
marrying  Lady  Croston.  You  know  that  I  think  her 
worthless — no,  wait  a  minute,  don't  interrupt — I  am 
only  saying  what  I  think.  You  believe  in  her;  you 
believe  that  she  is  in  love  with  you  and  will  marry 
you,  and  have  good  reason  to  believe  it,  have  you 
not?" 

Bottles  nodded. 

"Very  well.  Supposing  that  I  can  show  you  within 
half  an  hour  that  she  is  perfectly  ready  to  marry 
somebody  else — myself,  for  instance — would  you  stiU 
believe  in  her?" 

Bottles  turned  pale.  "The  thing  is  impossible,"  he 
said. 

"That  is  not  the  question.  Would  you  still  believe 
in  her,  and  would  you  still  marry  her  ?" 

"Great  heavens !  no." 

"Good.  Then  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do  for  you, 
and  it  will  perhaps  give  you  some  idea  of  how  deeply 
I  feel  in  the  matter ;  I  will  sacrifice  myself." 

"Sacrifice  yourself?" 

"Yes.  I  mean  that  I  will  this  very  evening  pro- 
pose to  Madeline  Croston  under  your  nose,  and  I  bet 
you  five  pounds  she  accepts  me." 

"Impossible,"  said  Bottles  again.  "Besides,  if  she 
did  you  don't  want  to  marry  her." 

"Marry  her !  No,  indeed.  7  am  not  mad.  I  shall 
have  to  get  out  of  the  scrape  as  best  I  can — always 
supposing  my  view  of  the  lady  is  correct." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Bottles  with  a  gasp,  "but  I 


ii20  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

must  ask  you — in  short,  have  you  ever  been  on  affec- 
tionate terms  with  Madeline?" 

"Never,  on  my  honour." 

"And  yet  you  think  she  will  marry  you  if  you  ask 
her,  even  after  what  took  place  with  me  yesterday?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  my  boy,"  replied  Sir  Eustace  with  a 
cynical  smile,  "I  have  eight  thousand  a  year  and  you 
have  eight  hundred — because  I  have  a  title  and  you 
have  none.  That  you  may  happen  to  be  the  better 
fellow  of  the  two  will,  I  fear,  not  make  up  for  these 
deficiencies." 

Bottles  with  a  motion  of  his  hand  waved  his  broth- 
er's courtly  little  compliment  away,  as  it  were,  and 
turned  on  him  with  a  set  white  face. 

"I  do  not  believe  you,  Eustace,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
understand  what  you  make  out  this  lady  to  be  when 
you  say  that  she  could  kiss  me  and  tell  me  that  she 
loved  me — for  she  did  both  yesterday — and  promise 
to  marry" you  to-day?" 

Sir  Eustace  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  think  that 
the  lady  in  question  has  done  something  like  that 
before,  George." 

"That  was  years  ago  and  under  pressure.  Now, 
Eustace,  you  have  made  this  charge ;  you  have  upset 
my  faith  in  Madeline,  whom  I  hope  to  marry,  and  I 
say,  prove  it — prove  it  if  you  can.  I  will  stake  my 
life  you  cannot." 

"Don't  agitate  yourself,  my  dear  fellow ;  and  as  to 
betting  I  would  not  risk  more  than  the  fiver.  Now 
oblige  me  by  stepping  behind  those  velvet  curtains — 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  121 

a  la  'School  for  Scandal' — and  listening  in  perfect 
silence  to  my  conversation  with  Lady  Croston.  She 
does  not  know  that  you  are  here,  so  she  will  not  miss 
you.  You  can  escape  when  you  have  had  enough  of 
it,  for  there  is  a  door  through  on  to  the  landing,  and 
as  we  came  up  I  noticed  that  it  was  ajar.  Or  if  you 
like  you  can  appear  from  between  the  curtains  like 
an  infuriated  husband  on  the  stage  and  play  whatever 
role  occasion  may  demand.  Really  the  situation  has 
a  laughable  side.  I  should  enjoy  it  immensely  if  / 
were  behind  the  curtain  too.  Come,  in  you  go." 

Bottles  hesitated.     "I  can't  hide,"  he  said. 

"Nonsense;  remember  how  much  depends  on  it. 
All  is  fair  in  love  or  war.  Quick ;  here  she  comes." 

Bottles  grew  flurried  and  yielded,  scarcely  know- 
ing what  he  did.  In  another  second  he  was  in  the 
darkened  room  behind  the  curtains,  through  the. crack 
in  which  he  could  command  the  lighted  scene  before 
him,  and  Sir  Eustace  was  back  at  his  place  before 
the  fire,  reflecting  that  in  his  ardour  to  extricate  his 
brother  from  what  he  considered  a  suicidal  engage- 
ment he  had  let  himself  in  for  a  very  pretty  under- 
taking. Suppose  she  accepted  him,  his  brother  would 
be  furious,  and  he  would  probably  have  to  go  abroad 
to  get  out  of  the  lady's  way;  and  suppose  she  re- 
fused him,  he  would  look  a  fool. 

Meanwhile  the  sweep,  sweep  of  Madeline's  dress 
as  she  passed  down  the  stairs  was  drawing  nearer, 
and  in  another  instant  she  was  in  the  room.  She  was 
beautifully  dressed  in  silver-grey  silk,  plentifully 
trimmed  with  black  lace,  and  cut  square  back  and 
front  so  as  to  show  her  rounded  shoulders.  She 


,122  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

wore  no  ornaments,  being  one  of  the  few  women  who 
are  able  to  dispense  with  them,  unless  indeed  a  red 
camellia  pinned  in  the  front  of  her  dress  can  be  called 
an  ornament. 

Bottles,  shivering  with  shame  and  doubt  behind 
his  curtain,  marked  that  red  camellia,  and  wondered 
of  what  it  reminded  him. 

Then  in  a  flash  it  all  came  back,  the  scene  of  years 
and  years  ago — the  veranda  in  far-away  Natal, 
with  himself  sitting  on  it,  an  open  letter  in  his  hand 
and  staring  with  all  his  eyes  at  the  camellia  bush 
covered  with  bloom  before  him.  It  seemed  a  bad 
omen  to  him — that  camellia  in  Madeline's  bosom. 
Next  second  she  was  speaking. 

"Oh,  Sir  Eustace,  I  owe  you  a  thousand  apologies. 
You  must  have  been  here  for  quite  ten  minutes,  for 
I  heard  the  front  door  bang  when  you  came.  But  my 
poor  little  girl  Effie  is  ill  with  a  sore  throat  which  has 
made  her  feverish,  and  she  absolutely  refused  to  go 
to  sleep  unless  she  had  my  hand  to  hold." 

"Lucky  Effie/'  said  Sir  Eustace,  with  his  politest 
bow;  "I  am  sure  I  can  understand  her  fancy." 

At  the  moment  he  was  holding  Madeline's  hand  him- 
self, and  gave  emphasis  to  his  words  by  communicat- 
ing the  gentlest  possible  pressure  to  it  as  he  let  it  fall. 
But  knowing  his  habits,  she  did  not  take  much  notice. 
Comparative  strangers  when  Sir  Eustace  shook 
hands  with  them  were  sometimes  in  doubt  whether 
he  was  about  to  propose  to  them  or  to  make  a  remark 
upon  the  weather.  Alas!  it  had  always  been  the 
weather. 

"I  came  as  a  man  of  business  besides,  and  men  of 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  123 

business  are  accustomed  to  be  kept  waiting,"  he 
went  on. 

"You  are  really  very  good,  Sir  Eustace,  to  take  so 
much  trouble  about  my  affairs." 

"It  is  a  pleasure,  Lady  Croston." 

"Ah,  Sir  Eustace,  you  do  not  expect  me  to  believe 
that,"  laughed  the  radiant  creature  at  his  side.  "But 
if  only  you  knew  how  I  detest  lawyers,  and  what  you 
spare  me  by  the  trouble  you  take,  I  am  sure  you  would 
not  grudge  me  your  time." 

"Do  not  talk  of  it,  Lady  Croston.  I  would  do  a 
great  deal  more  than  that  for  you ;  in  fact,"  here  he 
dropped  his  voice  a  little,  "there  are  few  things  that 
I  would  not  do  for  you,  Madeline/' 

She  raised  her  delicate  eyebrows  till  they  looked 
like  notes  of  interrogation,  and  blushed  a  little.  This 
was  quite  a  new  style  for  Sir  Eustace.  Was  he  in 
earnest?  she  wondered.  Impossible! 

"And  now  for  business,"  he  continued ;  "not  that 
there  is  much  business ;  as  I  understand  it,  you  have 
only  to  sign  this  document,  which  I  have  already  wit- 
nessed, and  the  stock  can  be  transferred." 

She  signed  the  paper  which  he  had  brought  in  a 
big  envelope  almost  without  looking  at  it,  for  she 
was  thinking  of  Sir  Eustace's  remark,  and  he  put  it 
back  in  the  envelope. 

"Is  that  all  the  business,  Sir  Eustace?'*  she 
asked. 

"Yes;  quite  all.  Now  I  suppose  that  as  I  have 
done  my  duty  I  had  better  go  away." 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  he  would!"  groaned  Bottles 
to  himself  behind  the  curtains.  He  did  not  like  his 


124  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

brother's  affectionate  little  ways  or  Madeline's  toler- 
ance of  them. 

"Indeed,  no;  you  had  better  sit  down  and  talk  to 
me — that  is,  if  you  have  got  nothing  pleasanter  to 
do." 

We  can  guess  Sir  Eustace's  prompt  reply  and 
Madeline's  smiling  reception  of  the  compliment,  as 
she  seated  herself  in  a  low  chair — that  same  low 
chair  she  had  occupied  the  day  before. 

"Now  for  it,"  said  Sir  Eustace  to  himself.  "I 
wonder  how  George  is  getting  on?" 

"My  brother  tells  me  that  he  came  to  see  you  yes- 
terday," he  began. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling  again,  but  wonder- 
ing in  her  heart  how  much  he  had  told  him. 

"Do  you  find  him  much  changed?" 

"Not  much." 

"You  used  to  be  very  fond  of  each  other  once,  if 
I  remember  right?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  once." 

"I  often  think  how  curious  it  is,"  went  on  Sir  Eus- 
tace in  a  reflective  tone,  "to  watch  the  various 
changes  time  brings  about,  especially  where  the  af- 
fections are  concerned.  One  sees  children  at  the  sea- 
side making  little  mounds  of  sand,  and  they  think,  if 
they  are  very  young  children,  that  they  will  find  them 
there  to-morrow.  But  they  reckon  without  their  tide. 
To-morrow  the  sands  will  be  swept  as  level  as  ever, 
and  the  little  boys  will  have  to  begin  again.  It  is  like 
that  with  our  youthful  love  affairs,  is  it  not?  The 
tide  of  time  comes  up  and  sweeps  them  away,  fortu- 
nately for  ourselves.  Now  in  your  case,  for  instance, 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  125 

it  is,  I  think,  a  happy  thing  for  both  of  you  that  your 
sandhouse  did  not  last.  Is  it  not  ?" 

Madeline  sighed  softly.  "Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she 
answered. 

Bottles,  behind  the  curtains,  rapidly  reviewed  the 
past,  and  came  to  a  different  conclusion. 

"Well,  that  is  all  done  with,"  said  Sir  Eustace 
cheerfully. 

Madeline  did  not  contradict  him ;  she  did  not  see 
her  way  to  doing  so  just  at  present. 

Then  came  a  pause. 

"Madeline,"  said  Sir  Eustace  presently,  in  a 
changed  voice,  "I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"Indeed,  Sir  Eustace,"  she  answered,  lifting  her 
eyebrows  again  in  her  note  of  interrogation  manner, 
"what  is  it?" 

"It  is  this,  Madeline — I  want  to  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife." 

The  blue  velvet  curtains  suddenly  gave  a  jump  as 
though  they  were  assisting  at  a  spiritualistic  seance. 

Sir  Eustice  looked  at  the  curtains  with  warning  iri 
his  eye. 

Madeline  saw  nothing. 

"Really,  Sir  Eustace!" 

"I  dare  say  I  surprise  you,"  went  on  this  ardent 
lover ;  "my  suit  may  seem  a  sudden  one,  but  in  truth 
it  is  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"O  Lord,  what  a  lie !"  groaned  the  distracted  Bot- 
tles to  himself. 

"I  thought,  Sir  Eustace,"  murmured  Madeline  in 
her  sweet  low  voice,  "that  you  told  me  not  very  long 
ago  that  you  never  meant  to  marry." 


,126  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

"Nor  did  I,  Madeline,  because  I  thought  there  was 
no  chance  of  my  marrying  you"  ("which  I  am  sure 
I  hope  there  isn't/'  he  added  to  himself).  "But— 
but,  Madeline,  I  love  you."  ("Heaven  forgive  me 
for  that!")  "Listen  to  me,  Madeline,  before  you 
answer,"  and  he  drew  his  chair  closer  to  her  own. 
"I  feel  the  loneliness  of  my  position,  and  I  want  to 
get  married.  I  think  that  we  should  suit  each  other 
very  well.  At  our  age,  now  that  our  youth  is  past" 
(he  could  not  resist  this  dig,  at  which  Madeline 
winced),  "probably  neither  of  us  would  wish  to 
marry  anybody  much  our  junior.  I  have  had  many 
opportunities  lately,  Madeline,  of  seeing  the  beauties 
of  your  character,  and  to  the  beauties  of  your  person 
no  man  could  be  blind.  I  can  offer  you  a  good  posi- 
tion, a  good  fortune,  and  myself,  such  as  I  am.  Will 
you  take  me?"  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon  hers  and 
gazed  earnestly  into  her  eyes. 

"Really,  Sir  Eustace,"  she  murmured,  "this  is  so 
very  unexpected  and  sudden." 

"Yes,  Madeline,  I  know  it  is.  I  have  no  right  to 
take  you  by  storm  in  this  way,  but  I  trust  you  will 
not  allow  my  precipitancy  to  weigh  against  me. 
Take  a  little  time  to  think  it  over — a  week  say"  ("by 
which  time,"  he  reflected,  "I  hope  to  be  in  Algiers"). 
"Only,  if  you  can,  Madeline,  tell  me  that  I  may 
hope." 

She  made  no  immediate  answer,  but,  letting  her 
hands  fall  idly  in  her  lap,  looked  straight  before  her, 
her  beautiful  eyes  fixed  upon  vacancy,  and  her  mind 
amply  occupied  in  considering  the  pros  and  cons  of 
the  situation.  Then  Sir  Eustace  took  heart  of  grace ; 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  127 

bending  down,  he  kissed  the  Madonna-like  face. 
Still  there  was  no  response.  Only  very  gently  she 
pushed  him  from  her,  whispering: 

"Yes,  Eustace,  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you 
that  you  may  hope." 

Bottles  waited  to  see  no  more.  With  set  teeth  and 
flaming  eyes  he  crept,  a  broken  man,  through  the 
door  that  led  on  to  the  landing,  crept  down  the  stairs 
and  into  the  hall.  On  the  pegs  were  his  hat  and  coat ; 
he  took  them  and  passed  into  the  street. 

"I  have  done  a  disgraceful  thing,"  he  thought, 
"and  I  have  paid  for  it." 

Softly  as  the  door  closed  Sir  Eustace  heard  it ;  and 
then  he  too  left  the  room,  murmuring,  "I  shall  soon 
come  for  my  answer,  Madeline." 

When  he  reached  the  street  his  brother  was  gone. 


VI 

SIR  EUSTACE  did  not  go  straight  back  to  the  Albany, 
but,  calling  a  hansom,  drove  down  to  his  club. 

"Well,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "I  have  played  a 
good  many  curious  parts  in  my  time,  but  I  never  had 
to  do  with  anything  like  this  before.  I  only  hope 
George  is  not  much  cut  up.  His  eyes  ought  to  be 
opened  now.  What  a  woman — "  but  we  will  not 
repeat  Sir  Eustace's  comments  upon  the  lady  to 
whom  he  was  nominally  half  engaged. 

At  the  club  Sir  Eustace  met  his  friend  the  Under- 
secretary, who  had  just  escaped  from  the  House. 


128  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

Thanks  to  information  furnished  to  him  that  morn- 
ing by  Bottles,  who  had  been  despatched  by  Sir  Eus- 
tace, in  a  penitent  mood,  to  the  Colonial  Office  to  see 
him,  he  had  just  succeeded  in  confusing,  if  not  abso- 
lutely in  defeating,  the  impertinent  people  who 
"wanted  to  know."  Accordingly  he  was  jubilant, 
and  greeted  Sir  Eustace  with  enthusiasm,  and  they 
sat  talking  together  for  an  hour  or  more. 

Then  Sir  Eustace,  being,  as  has  been  said,  of  early 
habits,  made  his  way  home. 

In  his  sitting-room  he  found  his  brother  smoking 
and  contemplating  the  fire. 

"Hullo,  old  fellow  I"  he  said,  "I  wish  you  had 
come  to  the  club  with  me.  Atherleigh  was  there,  and 
is  delighted  with  you.  What  you  told  him  this  morn- 
ing enabled  him  to  smash  up  his  enemies,  and  as  the 
smashing  lately  has  been  rather  the  other  way  he  is 
jubilant.  He  wants  you  to  go  to  see  him  again  to- 
morrow. Oh,  by  the  way,  you  made  your  escape  all 
right.  I  only  hope  I  may  be  as  lucky.  Well,  what 
do  you  think  of  your  lady-love  now?" 

"I  think/'  said  Bottles  slowly — "that  I  had  rather 
not  say  what  I  do  think." 

"Well,  you  are  not  going  to  marry  her  now,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"No,  I  shall  not  marry  her." 

"That  is  all  right ;  but  I  expect  that  it  will  take  me 
all  I  know  to  get  clear  of  her.  However,  there  are 
some  occasions  in  life  when  one  is  bound  to  sacrifice 
one's  own  convenience,  and  this  is  one  of  them. 
After  all,  she  is  really  very  pretty  in  the  evening,  so 
it  might  have  been  worse." 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  129 

Bottles  winced,  and  Sir  Eustace  took  a  cigarette. 

"By  the  way,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  as  he  settled 
himself  in  his  chair  again,  "I  hope  you  are  not  put 
out  with  me  over  this.  Believe  me,  you  have  no  cause 
to  be  jealous ;  she  does  not  care  a  hang  about  me,  it  is 
only  the  title  and  the  money.  If  a  fellow  who  was  a 
lord  and  had  a  thousand  a  year  more  proposed  to  her 
to-morrow  she  would  chuck  me  up  and  take  him." 

"No ;  I  am  not  angry  with  you,"  said  Bottles ;  "you 
meant  kindly,  but  I  am  angry  with  myself.  It  was 
not  honourable  to — in  short,  play  the  spy  upon  a 
woman's  weakness." 

"You  are  very  scrupulous,"  yawned  Sir  Eustace ; 
"all  means  are  fair  to  catch  a  snake.  Dear  me,  I 
nearly  exploded  once  or  twice;  it  was  better  than 
[yawn]  any  [yawn]  play,"  and  Sir  Eustace  went  to 
sleep. 

Bottles  sat  still  and  stared  at  the  fire. 

Presently  his  brother  woke  up  with  a  start.  "OH, 
you  are  there,  are  you,  Bottles?"  (it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  called  him  by  that  name  since  his  re- 
turn). "Odd  thing;  but  do  you  know  that  I  was 
dreaming  that  we  were  boys  again,  and  trout-fishing 
in  the  Cantlebrook  stream.  I  dreamt  that  I  hooked  a 
big  fish,  and  you  were  so  excited  that  you  jumped 
right  into  the  river  after  it — you  did  once,  you  re- 
member— and  the  river  swept  you  away  and  left  me 
on  the  bank;  most  unpleasant  dream.  Well,  good 
night,  old  boy.  I  vote  we  go  down  and  have  some 
trout-fishing  together  in  the  spring.  God  bless  you !" 

"Good  night,"  said  Bottles,  gazing  affectionately 
after  his  brother's  departing  form. 


130  THE  BLUE  CURTAINS 

Then  he  too  rose  and  went  to  his  bedroom.  On  a 
table  stood  a  battered  old  tin  despatch-box — the  com- 
panion of  all  his  wanderings.  He  opened  it  and  took 
from  it  first  a  little  bottle  of  chloral. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  shall  want  you  if  I  am  to  sleep 
again."  Setting  the  bottle  down,  he  extracted  from 
a  dirty  envelope  one  or  two  letters  and  a  faded  photo- 
graph. It  was  the  same  that  used  to  hang  over  his 
bed  in  his  quarters  at  Maritzburg.  These  he  de- 
stroyed, tearing  them  into  small  bits  with  his  strong 
brown  fingers. 

Then  he  shut  the  box  and  sat  down  at  the  table  to 
think,  opening  the  sluice-gates  of  his  mind  and  let- 
ting the  sea  of  misery  flow  in,  as  it  were. 

This,  then,  was  the  woman  whom  he  had  forgiven 
and  loved  and  honoured  for  all  these  years.  This 
was  the  end  and  this  the  reward  of  all  his  devotion 
and  of  all  his  hopes.  And  he  smiled  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  pain  and  self -contempt. 

What  was  he  to  do?  Go  back  to  South  Africa? 
He  had  not  the  heart  for  it.  Live  here?  He  could 
not.  His  existence  had  been  wasted.  He  had  lost 
his  delusion — the  beautiful  delusion  of  his  life — and 
he  felt  as  though  it  would  drive  him  mad,  as  the  man 
whose  shadow  left  him  went  mad. 

He  rose  from  the  chair,  opened  the  window,  and 
looked  out.  It  was  a  clear  frosty  night,  and  the  stars 
shone  brightly.  For  some  while  he  stood  looking  at 
them;  then  he  undressed  himself.  Generally,  for  he 
was  different  to  most  men,  he  said  his  prayers.  For 
years,  indeed,  he  had  not  missed  doing  so,  any  more 
than  he  had  missed  praying  Providence  in  them  to 


THE  BLUE  CURTAINS  131 

watch  over  and  bless  his  beloved  Madeline.  But  to- 
night he  said  no  prayers.  He  could  not  pray.  The 
three  angels,  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  whose  whisper- 
ings heretofore  had  been  ever  in  his  ears,  had  taken 
wing  and  left  him  as  he  played  the  eavesdropper  be- 
hind those  blue  velvet  curtains. 

So  he  swallowed  his  sleeping-draught  and  laid 

himself  down  to  rest. 

*  *  #  *  * 

When  Madeline  Croston  heard  the  news  at  a  din- 
ner-party on  the  following  evening  she  was  much 
shocked,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  go  home  early. 
To  this  day  she  tells  the  story  as  a  frightful  warning 
against  the  careless  use  of  chloral. 


Little  Flower 


THE  REV.  THOMAS  BULL  was  a  man  of  rock-like 
character  with  no  more  imagination  than  a  rock.  Of 
good  birth,  good  abilities,  good  principles  and  good 
repute,  really  he  ought  to  have  been  named  not 
Thomas  but  John  Bull,  being  as  he  was  a  typical 
representative  of  the  British  middle  class.  By  nature 
a  really  religious  man  and,  owing  to  the  balance  of 
his  mind,  not  subject  to  most  of  the  weaknesses  which 
often  afflict  others,  very  early  in  his  career  he  deter- 
mined that  things  spiritual  were  of  far  greater  im- 
portance than  things  temporal,  and  that  as  Eternity 
is  much  longer  than  Time,  it  was  wise  to  devote  him- 
self to  the  spiritual  and  leave  the  temporal  to  look 
after  itself.  There  are  quite  a  number  of  good  peo- 
ple, earnest  believers  in  the  doctrine  of  rewards  and 
punishments,  who  take  that  practical  view.  With 
such 

"Repaid  a  thousand-fold  shall  be," 

is  a  favourite  line  of  a  favourite  hymn. 

It  is  true  that  his  idea  of  the  spiritual  was  limited. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  more  accurate  to  say  that  it  was 

Copyright,  1920,  by  H.  Rider  Haggard. 
133 


134  LITTLE  FLOWER 

unlimited,  since  he  accepted  without  doubt  or  ques- 
tion everything  that  was  to  be  found  within  the  four 
corners  of  what  he  had  been  taught.  As  a  boy  he 
had  been  noted  for  his  prowess  in  swallowing  the 
largest  pills. 

"Don't  think,"  he  would  say  to  his  weaker  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  especially  one  of  the  latter  whose 
throat  seemed  to  be  so  constituted  that  she  was 
obliged  to  cut  up  these  boluses  with  a  pair  of  scissors, 
"Don't  think,  but  gulp  'em  down  1" 

So  it  was  with  everything  else  in  life ;  Thomas  did 
not  think,  he  gulped  it  down.  Thus  in  these  matters 
of  faith,  if  other  young  folk  ventured  to  talk  of  "al- 
legory" or  even  to  cast  unhallowed  doubts  upon  such 
points  as  those  of  the  exact  method  of  the  appearance 
on  this  earth  of  their  Mother  Eve,  or  whether  the  sun 
actually  did  stand  still  at  the  bidding  of  Joshua,  or 
the  ark,  filled  with  countless  pairs  of  living  creatures, 
floated  to  the  top  of  Ararat,  or  Jonah,  defying  diges- 
tive juices,  in  fact  abode  three  days  in  the  interior  of 
a  whale,  Thomas  looked  on  them  with  a  pitying 
smile  and  remarked  that  what  had  been  written  by 
Moses  and  other  accepted  prophets  was  enough  for 
him. 

Indeed  a  story  was  told  of  him  when  he  was  a  boy 
at  school  which  well  exemplified  this  attitude.  By 
way  of  lightening  their  labours  a  very  noted  geolo- 
gist who  had  the  art  of  interesting  youthful  audiences 
and  making  the  rocks  of  the  earth  tell  their  own 
secular  story,  was  brought  to  lecture  to  his  House. 
This  eminent  man  lectured  extremely  well.  He 
showed  how  beyond  a  doubt  the  globe  we  inhabit, 


LITTLE  FLOWER  135 

one  speck  of  matter,  floating  in  the  sea  of  space,  had 
existed  for  millions  upon  millions  of  years,  and  how 
by  the  evolutionary  changes  of  countless  ages  it  had 
at  length  become  fitted  to  be  the  habitation  of  men, 
who  probably  themselves  had  lived  and  moved  and 
had  their  being  there  for  at  least  a  million  of  years, 
perhaps  much  longer. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  entrancing  story  the  boys 
were  invited  to  ask  questions.  Thomas  Bull,  a 
large,  beetle-browed  youth,  rose  at  once  and  inquired 
of  their  titled  and  aged  visitor,  a  man  of  world-wide 
reputation,  why  he  thought  it  funny  to  tell  them  fairy 
tales.  The  old  gentleman,  greatly  interested,  put  on 
his  spectacles,  and  while  the  rest  of  the  school  gasped 
and  the  head  master  and  other  pedagogues  stared 
amazed,  studied  this  strange  lad,  then  said : 

"I  am  outspoken  myself,  and  I  like  those  who 
speak  out  when  they  do  so  from  conviction ;  but,  my 
young  friend,  why  do  you  consider  that  I — well,  ex- 
aggerate ?" 

"Because  the  Bible  says  so,"  replied  Thomas  un- 
abashed. "The  Bible  tells  us  that  the  world  was 
made  in  six  days,  not  in  millions  of  years,  and  that 
the  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  were  put  in  the 
sky  to  light;  also  that  man  was  created  four  thou- 
sand years  B.C.  Therefore,  either  you  are  wrong, 
sir,  or  the  Bible  is,  and  7  prefer  the  Bible." 

The  eminent  scientist  took  off  his  spectacles  and 
carefully  put  them  away,  remarking: 

"Most  logical  and  conclusive.  Pray,  young  gen- 
tleman, do  not  allow  any  humble  deductions  of  my 
own  or  others  to  interfere  with  your  convictions. 


136  LITTLE  FLOWER 

Only  I  believe  it  was  Archbishop  Ussher,  not  the 
Bible,  who  said  that  the  world  began  about  4,000  B.C. 
I  think  that  one  day  you  may  become  a  great  man — 
in  your  own  way.  Meanwhile  might  I  suggest  that 
a  certain  sugaring  of  manners  sweetens  controversy." 

After  this  no  more  questions  were  asked,  and  the 
meeting  broke  up  in  confusion. 

From  all  of  which  it  will  be  gathered  that  since 
none  of  us  is  perfect,  even  in  Thomas  there  were 
weak  points.  For  instance,  he  had  what  is  known  as 
a  "temper,"  also  he  was  blessed  with  a  good  idea  of 
himself  and  his  own  abilities,  and  had  a  share  of  that 
intolerance  by  which  this  is  so  often  accompanied. 

In  due  course  Thomas  Bull  became  a  theological 
student.  Rarely  was  there  such  a  student.  He 
turned  neither  to  left  nor  right,  worked  eight  hours 
a  day  when  he  did  not  work  ten,  and  took  the  highest 
possible  degrees  in  every  subject.  Then  he  was 
ordained.  About  this  time  he  chanced  to  hear  a 
series  of  sermons  by  a  Colonial  bishop  that  directed 
his  mind  towards  the  mission-field.  This  was  after 
he  had  served  as  a  deacon  in  an  East  End  parish 
and  became  acquainted  with  savagery  in  its  western 
form. 

He  consulted  with  his  friends  and  his  superiors  as 
to  whether  his  true  call  were  not  to  the  far  parts  of 
the  earth.  Unanimously  they  answered  that  they 
thought  so;  so  unanimously  that  a  mild  fellow- 
labourer  whom  he  bullied  was  stung  to  the  un- 
charitable remark  that  almost  it  looked  as  though 
they  wanted  to  be  rid  of  him.  Perhaps  they  did; 


LITTLE  FLOWER  137 

perhaps  they  held  that  for  energy  so  gigantic  there 
was  no  fitting  outlet  in  this  narrow  land. 

But  as  it  chanced  there  was  another  to  be  con- 
sulted, for  by  this  time  the  Rev.  Thomas  Bull  had 
become  engaged  to  the  only  daughter  of  a  deceased 
London  trader — in  fact,  he  had  been  a  shop-keeper 
upon  a  large  scale.  This  worthy  citizen  had  re-mar- 
ried late  in  life,  choosing,  or  being  chosen  by  a 
handsome  and  rather  fashionable  lady  of  a  somewhat 
higher  class  than  his  own,  who  was  herself  a  widow. 
By  her  he  had  no  issue,  his  daughter,  Dorcas,  being 
the  child  of  his  first  marriage.  Mr.  Humphreys,  for 
that  was  his  name,  made  a  somewhat  peculiar  will, 
leaving  all  his  fortune,  which  was  considerable,  to 
his  young  widow,  charged,  however,  with  an  annuity 
of  £300  settled  on  his  daughter  Dorcas. 

On  the  day  before  his  death,  however,  he  added  a 
codicil  which  angered  Mrs.  Humphreys  very  much 
when  she  saw  it,  to  the  effect  that  if  she  re-married, 
three-fourths  of  the  fortune  were  to  pass  to  Dorcas 
at  once,  and  that  she  or  her  heirs  were  ultimately  to 
receive  it  all  upon  the  decease  of  his  wife. 

The  result  of  these  testamentary  dispositions  was 
that  one  house,  although  it  chanced  to  be  large, 
proved  too  small  to  hold  Mrs.  Humphreys  and  her 
stepdaughter,  Dorcas.  The  latter  was  a  mild  and 
timid  little  creature  with  a  turned-up  nose,  light- 
coloured  fluffy  hair  and  an  indeterminate  mouth. 
Still  there  was  a  degree  of  annoyance  and  fashion- 
able scorn  at  which  her  spirit  rose.  The  end  of  it 
was  that  she  went  to  live  on  her  three  hundred  a 
year  and  to  practise  good  works  in  the  East  End, 


138  LITTLE  FLOWER 

being  laudably  determined  to  make  a  career  for  her- 
self, which  she  was  not  in  the  least  fitted  to  do. 

Thus  it  was  that  Dorcas  came  into  contact  with 
the  Rev.  Thomas  Bull.  From  the  first  time  she  saw 
her  future  husband  he  dominated  and  fascinated  her. 
He  was  in  the  pulpit  and  really  looked  very  hand- 
some there  with  his  burly  form,  his  large  black  eyes 
and  his  determined,  clean-shaven  face.  Moreover, 
he  preached  well  in  his  own  vigorous  fashion. 

On  this  occasion  he  was  engaged  in  denouncing 
the  vices  and  pettiness  of  modern  woman — upper- 
class  modern  woman — of  whom  he  knew  nothing  at 
all,  a  topic  that  appealed  to  an  East  End  congrega- 
tion. He  showed  how  worthless  was  this  luxurious 
stamp  of  females,  what  a  deal  they  thought  of  dress 
and  of  other  more  evil  delights.  He  compared  them 
to  the  Florentines  whom  Savonarola  (in  his  heart 
Thomas  saw  resemblances  between  himself  and  that 
great  if  narrow  man)  scourged  till  they  wept  in  re- 
pentance and  piled  up  their  jewels  and  fripperies  to 
be  burned. 

What  do  they  do  with  their  lives,  he  asked.  Is 
there  one  in  ten  thousand  of  them  who  would 
abandon  her  luxuries  and  go  forth  to  spread  the 
light  in  the  dark  places  of  earth,  or  would  even  pinch 
herself  to  support  others  who  did?  And  so  on  for 
thirty  minutes. 

Dorcas,  listening  and,  reflecting  on  her  step- 
mother, thought  how  marvellously  true  it  all  was. 
Had  he  known  her  personally,  which  so  far  as  she 
was  aware  was  not  the  case,  the  preacher  could  not 
have  described  her  better.  Also  it  was  certain  that 


LITTLE  FLOWER  139 

Mrs.  Humphreys  and  her  friends  had  not  the  slight- 
est intention  of  spreading  any  kind  of  light,  unless 
it  were  that  of  their  own  eyes  and  jewels,  or  of  going 
anywhere  to  do  so,  except  perhaps  to  Monte  Carlo  in 
the  spring. 

How  noble  too  was  the  picture  he  painted  of  the 
life  of  self-sacrifice  and  high  endeavour  that  lay 
open  to  her  sex.  She  would  like  to  lead  that  higher 
life,  being  in  truth  a  good-hearted  little  thing  full 
of  righteous  impulses ;  only  unfortunately  she  did  not 
know  how,  for  her  present  mild  and  tentative  efforts 
had  been  somewhat  disappointing  in  their  fruits. 

Then  an  inspiration  seized  her ;  she  would  consult 
Mr.  Bull. 

She  did  so,  with  results  that  might  have  been 
anticipated.  Within  three  months  she  and  her 
mentor  were  engaged  and  within  six  married. 

It  was  during  those  fervid  weeks  of  engagement 
that  the  pair  agreed,  not  without  a  little  hesitation 
upon  the  part  of  Dorcas,  that  in  due  course  he  would 
become  a  missionary  and  set  forth  to  convert  the 
heathen  in  what  he  called  "Blackest  Africa."  First, 
however,  there  was  much  to  be  done;  he  must  go 
through  a  long  course  of  training;  he  must  acquaint 
himself  with  various  savage  languages,  such  as 
Swahili  and  Zulu,  and  so  must  she. 

Oh!  how  poor  Dorcas,  who  was  not  very  clever 
and  had  no  gift  of  tongues,  came  to  loathe  those 
barbaric  dialects.  Still  she  worked  away  at  them 
like  a  heroine,  confining  herself  ultimately,  with  a 
wise  and  practical  prescience,  to  learning  words  and 
sentences  that  dealt  with  domestic  affairs,  such  as 


140  LITTLE  FLOWER 

"Light  the  fire."  "Put  the  kettle  on  to  boil," 
"Sister,  have  you  chopped  the  wood?"  "Cease 
making  so  much  noise  in  the  kitchen-hut."  "Wake 
me  if  you  hear  the  lion  eating  our  cow."  And  so 
forth. 

For  more  than  a  year  after  their  marriage  these 
preliminaries  continued  while  Thomas  worked  like  a 
horse,  though  it  is  true  that  Dorcas  slackened  her  atten- 
tion to  Swahili  and  Zulu  grammar  in  the  pressure  of 
more  immediate  affairs.  Especially  was  this  so  after 
the  baby  was  born,  a  girl,  flaxen-haired  like  her 
mother,  whom  Thomas  christened  by  the  name  of 
Tabitha>  and  who  in  after  years  became  the  "Little 
Flower"  of  this  history.  Then  as  the  time  of  de- 
parture drew  near  another  thing  happened.  Her 
stepmother,  Mrs.  Humphreys,  insisted  upon  going 
to  a  ball  in  Lent,  where  she  caught  a  chill  that  de- 
veloped into  inflammation  of  the  lungs  and  killed  her. 

The  result  of  this  visitation  of  Providence,  as 
Thomas  called  it,  was  that  Dorcas  suddenly  found 
herself  a  rich  woman  with  an  income  of  quite  £2,000 
a  year,  for  her  father  had  been  wealthier  than  she 
knew.  Now  temptation  took  hold  of  her.  Why,  she 
asked  herself,  should  Thomas  depart  to  Africa  to 
teach  black  people,  when  with  his  gifts  and  her 
means  he  could  stop  at  home  comfortably  and  before 
very  long  become  a  bishop,  or  at  the  least  a  dean? 

Greatly  daring,  she  propounded  this  matter  to  her 
husband,  only  to  find  that  she  might  better  have  tried 
to  knock  down  a  stone  wall  with  her  head  than 
induce  him  to  change  his  plans.  He  listened  to  her 
patiently — unless  over-irritated,  a  perfectly  exaspe- 


LITTLE  FLOWER  141 

rating  patience  was  one  of  his  gifts — then  said  in  a 
cold  voice  that  he  was  astonished  at  her. 

"When  you  were  poor,"  he  went  on,  "you  vowed 
yourself  to  this  service,  and  now  because  we  are  rich 
you  wish  to  turn  traitor  and  become  a  seeker  after 
the  fleshpots  of  Egypt.  Never  let  me  hear  you  men- 
tion the  matter  again." 

"But  there  is  the  baby,"  she  exclaimed.  "Africa 
is  hot  and  might  not  agree  with  her." 

"Heaven  will  look  after  the  baby,"  he  answered. 

"That's  just  what  I  am  afraid  of,"  wailed  Dorcas. 

Then  they  had  their  first  quarrel,  in  the  course  of 
which,  be  it  admitted,  she  said  one  or  two  spiteful 
things.  For  instance,  she  suggested  that  the  real 
reason  he  wished  to  go  abroad  was  because  he  was 
so  unpopular  with  his  brother  clergymen  at  home, 
and  especially  with  his  superiors,  to  whom  he  was 
fond  of  administering  lectures  and  reproofs.  It 
ended,  of  course,  in  her  being  crushed  as  flat  as  is  a 
broken-winged  butterfly  that  comes  in  the  path  of  a 
garden  roller.  He  stood  up  and  towered  over  her. 

"Dorcas,"  he  said,  "do  what  you  will.  Stay  here 
if  you  wish,  and  enjoy  your  money  and  your 
luxuries.  I  sail  on  the  first  of  next  month  for  Africa. 
Because  you  are  weak,  do  I  cease  to  be  strong?" 

"I  think  not,"  she  replied,  sobbing,  and  gave  in. 

So  they  sailed,  first  class — this  was  a  concession, 
for  he  had  intended  to  go  third — but  without  a 
nurse ;  on  that  point  he  stood  firm. 

"You  must  learn  to  look  after  your  own  children," 
he  said,  a  remark  at  which  she  made  a  little  face  that 
meant  more  than  he  knew. 


K42  LITTLE  FLOWER 


II 

THE  career  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bull  during1  the  next 
eight  years  calls  for  but  little  comment.  Partly 
because  Tabitha  was  delicate  at  first  and  must  be 
within  reach  of  doctors,  they  lived  for  the  mo'St  part 
at  various  coast  cities  in  Africa,  where  Thomas 
worked  with  his  usual  fervour  and  earnestness, 
acquiring  languages  which  he  learned  to  speak  with 
considerable  perfection,  though  Dorcas  never  did, 
and  acquainting  himself  thoroughly  with  the  local 
conditions  in  so  far  as  they  affected  missionary 
enterprise. 

He  took  no  interest  in  anything  else,  not  even  in 
the  history  of  the  natives,  or  their  peculiar  forms  of 
culture,  since  for  the  most  part  they  have  a  secret 
culture  of  their  own.  All  that  was  done  with,  he 
said,  a  turned  page  of  the  black  and  barbarous  past ; 
it  was  his  business  to  write  new  things  upon  a  new 
sheet.  Perhaps  it  was  for  this  reason  that  Thomas 
Bull  never  really  came  to  understand  or  enter  into 
the  heart  of  a  Zulu,  or  a  Basuto,  or  a  Swahili,  or 
indeed  of  any  dark-skinned  man,  woman,  or  child. 
To  him  they  were  but  brands  to  be  snatched  from  the 
burning,  desperate  and  disagreeable  sinners  who 
must  be  saved,  and  he  set  to  work  to  save  them  with 
fearful  vigour. 

His  wife,  although  her  vocabulary  was  still  ex- 
tremely limited  and  much  eked  out  with  English  or 
Dutch  words,  got  on  much  better  with  them. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  143 

"You  know,  Thomas/'  she  would  say,  "they  have 
all  sorts  of  fine  ideas  which  we  don't  understand,  and 
are  not  so  bad  in  their  way,  only  you  must  find  out 
what  their  way  is." 

"I  have  found  out,"  he  replied  grimly;  "it  is  a 
very  evil  way,  the  way  of  destruction.  I  wish  you 
would  not  make  such  a  friend  of  that  sly  black  nurse- 
girl  who  tells  me  a  lie  once  out  of  every  three  times 
she  opens  her  mouth." 

For  the  rest  Dorcas  was  fairly  comfortable,  as 
with  their  means  she  was  always  able  to  have  a  nice 
house  in  whatever  town  they  might  be  stationed, 
where  she  could  give  tennis  parties  and  even  little 
lunches  and  dinners,  that  is  if  her  husband  chanced 
to  be  away,  as  often  he  was  visiting  up-country 
districts,  or  taking  the  duty  there  for  another  mis- 
sionary who  was  sick  or  on  leave.  Indeed,  in  these 
conditions  she  came  to  like  Africa  fairly  well,  for 
she  was  a  chilly  little  thing  who  loved  its  ample,  all- 
pervading  sunshine,  and  made  a  good  many  friends, 
especially  among  young  men,  to  whom  her  helpless- 
ness and  rather  forlorn  little  face  appealed. 

The  women,  too,  liked  her,  for  she  was  kindly  and 
always  ready  to  help  in  case  of  poverty  or  other 
distresses.  Luckily,  in  a  way,  she  was  her  own 
mistress,  since  her  fortune  came  to  her  unfettered 
by  any  marriage  settlements;  moreover,  it  was  in 
the  hands  of  trustees,  so  that  the  principal  could  not 
be  alienated.  Therefore  she  had  her  own  account 
and  her  own  cheque-book  and  used  her  spare  money 
as  she  liked.  More  than  one  poor  missionary's  wife 
knew  this  and  called  her  blessed,  as  through  her 


144  LITTLE  FLOWER 

bounty  they  once  again  looked  upon  the  shores  of 
England  or  were  able  to  send  a  sick  child  home  for 
treatment.  But  of  these  good  deeds  Dorcas  never 
talked,  least  of  all  to  her  husband.  If  he  suspected 
them,  after  one  encounter  upon  some  such  matter,  in 
which  she  developed  a  hidden  strength  and  purpose, 
he  had  the  sense  to  remain  silent. 

So  things  went  on  for  years,  not  unhappily  on  the 
whole,  for  as  they  rolled  by  the  child  Tabitha  grew 
acclimatised  and  much  stronger.  By  this  time, 
although  Dorcas  loved  her  husband  as  good  wives 
should,  obeying  him  in  all,  or  at  any  rate  in  most 
things,  she  had  come  to  recognise  that  he  and  she 
were  very  differently  constituted.  Of  course,  she 
knew  that  he  was  infinitely  her  superior,  and  indeed 
that  of  most  people.  Like  everybody  else  she  ad- 
mired his  uprightness,  his  fixity  of  purpose  and  his 
devouring  energy  and  believed  him  to  be  destined  to 
great  things.  Still,  to  tell  the  truth,  which  she  often 
confessed  with  penitence  upon  her  knees,  on  the 
whole  she  felt  happier,  or  at  any  rate  more  comfort- 
able, during  his  occasional  absences  to  which  allusion 
has  been  made,  when  she  could  have  her  friends  to 
tea  and  indulge  in  human  gossip  without  being  called 
"worldly." 

It  only  remains  to  add  that  her  little  girl  Tabitha, 
a  name  she  shortened  into  Tabbie,  was  her  constant 
joy,  especially  as  she  had  no  other  children.  Tabbie 
was  a  bright,  fair-haired  little  thing,  clever,  too,  with 
resource  and  a  will  of  her  own,  an  improved  edition 
of  herself,  but  in  every  way  utterly  unlike  her  father, 
a  fact  that  secretly  annoyed  him.  Everybody  loved 


LITTLE  FLOWER  145 

Tabitha,  and  Tabitha  loved  everybody,  not  excepting 
the  natives,  who  adored  her.     Between  the  Kaffirs 
and  Tabitha  there  was  some  strong  natural  bond  of 
sympathy.     They  understood  one  another. 
At  length  came  the  blow. 

It  happened  thus.  Not  far  from  the  borders  of 
Zululand  but  in  the  country  that  is  vaguely  known  as 
Portuguese  Territory,  was  a  certain  tribe  of  mixed 
Zulu  and  Basuto  blood  who  were  called  the  Ama- 
Sisa,  that  is,  the  People  of  the  Sisa.  Now  "Sisa"  in 
the  Zulu  tongue  has  a  peculiar  meaning  which  may 
be  translated  as  "Sent  Away."  It  is  said  that  they 
acquired  this  name  because  the  Zulu  kings  when  they 
exercised  dominion  over  all  that  district  were  in  the 
habit  of  despatching  large  herds  of  the  royal  cattle 
to  be  looked  after  by  these  people,  or  in  their  own 
idiom  to  be  sisa'd,  i.e.  agisted,  as  we  say  in  English 
of  stock  that  are  entrusted  to  another  to  graze  at  a 
distance  from  the  owner's  home. 

Some,  however,  gave  another  reason.  In  the  ter- 
ritory of  this  tribe  was  a  certain  spot  of  which  we 
shall  hear  more  later,  where  these  same  Zulu  kings 
were  in  the  habit  of  causing  offenders  against  their 
law  or  customs  to  be  executed.  Such  also,  like  the 
cattle,  were  "sent  away,"  and  from  one  of  these  two 
causes,  whichever  it  may  have  been,  or  perhaps  from 
both,  the  tribe  originally  derived  its  name. 

It  was  not  a  large  tribe,  perhaps  there  were  three 
hundred  and  fifty  heads  of  families  in  it,  or  say 
something  under  two  thousand  souls  in  all,  descend- 
ants, probably,  of  a  mild,  peace-loving,  industrious 


146  LITTLE  FLOWER 

Basuto  stock  on  to  which  had  been  grafted  a  certain 
number  of  the  dominant,  warlike  Zulus  who  perhaps 
had  killed  out  the  men  and  possessed  themselves  of 
the  Basuto  women  and  the  cattle.  The  result  was 
that  among  this  small  people  there  were  two  strains, 
one  of  the  bellicose  type,  which  practically  remained 
Zulus,  and  the  other  of  the  milder  and  more  pro- 
gressive Basuto  stamp,  who  were  in  the  majority. 

Among  these  Sisas  missionaries  had  been  at  work 
for  a  number  of  years,  with  results  that  on  the  whole 
were  satisfactory.  More  than  half  of  them  had  been 
baptised  and  were  Christians  of  a  sort ;  a  church  had 
been  built;  a  more  or  less  modern  system  of  agri- 
culture had  been  introduced,  and  the  most  of  the 
population  wore  trousers  or  skirts,  according  to  sex. 
Recently,  however,  trouble  had  arisen  over  the  old 
question  of  polygamy.  The  missionaries  would  not 
tolerate  more  than  one  wife,  while  the  Zulu  section 
of  the  tribe  insisted  upon  the  old  prerogative  of 
plural  marriage. 

The  dispute  had  ended  in  something  like  actual 
fighting,  in  the  course  of  which  the  church  and  the 
school  were  burnt,  also  the  missionary's  house. 
Because  of  these  troubles  this  excellent  man  was 
forced  to  camp  out  in  the  wet,  for  it  was  the  rainy 
season,  and  catching  a  chill,  died  suddenly  of  heart- 
failiire  following  rheumatic  fever  just  after  he  had 
moved  into  his  new  habitation,  which  consisted  of 
some  rather  glorified  native  huts. 

Subsequently  to  these  events  there  came  a  petition 
from  the  chief  o>f  the  tribe,  a  man  called  Kosa,  whose 
name  probably  derived  from  the  Zulu  word  Koos, 


LITTLE  FLOWER  147 

which  means  chief  or  captain,  addressed  to  the 
Church  authorities  and  asking  that  a  new  Teacher 
might  be  sent  to  take  the  place  of  him  who  had  died, 
also  to  rebuild  the  church  and  the  school.  If  this 
were  not  done,  said  the  messengers,  the  tribe  would 
relapse  into  heathenism,  since  the  Zulu  and  anti- 
Christian  party  headed  by  an  old  witch-doctor, 
named  Menzi,  was  strong  and  gaining  ground. 

This  was  an  appeal  that  could  not  be  neglected, 
since  hitherto  the  Sisa  had  been  a  spot  of  light  in 
a  dark  place,  as  most  of  the  surrounding  peoples, 
who  were  of  the  old  Zulu  stock,  remained  heathen. 
If  that  light  went  out  the  chances  were  that  they 
would  continue  to  be  so,  whereas  if  it  went  on  burn- 
ing another  result  might  be  hoped,  since  from  a 
spark  a  great  fire  may  come.  Therefore  earnest 
search  was  made  for  a  suitable  person  to  deal  with 
so  difficult  and  delicate  a  situation,  with  the  result 
that  the  lot  fell  upon  the  Rev.  Thomas  Bull. 

Once  his  name  was  mentioned,  it  was  acclaimed 
by  all.  He  was  the  very  man,  they  said,  bold, 
determined,  filled  with  a  Jesuit's  fiery  zeal  (although 
it  need  scarcely  be  explained  he  hated  Jesuits  as  a  cat 
does  mustard),  one  whom  no  witch-doctors  would 
daunt,  one,  moreover,  who  being  blessed  with  this 
world's  goods  would  ask  no  pay,  but  on  the  contrary 
would  perhaps  contribute  a  handsome  sum  towards 
the  re-building  of  the  church.  This,  it  may  be 
explained,  as  the  Mission  at  the  moment  scarcely 
possessed  a  spare  penny  with  which  to  bless  itself, 
was  a  point  that  could  not  be  overlooked. 

So  Thomas  was  sent  for  and  offered  the  post,  after 


148  LITTLE  FLOWER 

its  difficulties  and  drawbacks  had  been  fairly  but 
diplomatically  explained  to  him.  He  did  not  hesi- 
tate a  minute,  or  at  any  rate  five  minutes ;  he  took  it 
at  once,  feeling  that  his  call  had  come;  also  that  it 
was  the  very  thing  for  which  he  had  been  seeking. 
Up  in  that  secluded  spot  in  Portuguese  Territory  he 
would,  he  reflected,  be  entirely  on  his  own,  a  sort  of 
little  bishop  with  no  one  to  interfere  with  him,  and 
able  to  have  his  own  way  about  everything,  which 
in  more  civilised  regions  he  found  he  could  not  do. 
Here  a  set  of  older  gentlemen,  who  were  always 
appealing  to  their  experience  of  natives,  continually 
put  a  spoke  into  his  wheel,  bringing  his  boldest  plans 
to  naught.  There  it  would  be  different.  He  would 
fashion  his  own  wheel  and  grind  the  witch-doctor 
with  his  following  to  dust  beneath  its  iron  rim.  He 
said  that  he  would  go  at  once,  and  what  is  more,  he 
promised  a  donation  of  £1,000  towards  the  rebuild- 
ing of  the  church  and  other  burnt-out  edifices. 

"That  is  very  generous  of  Bull,"  remarked  the 
Dean  when  he  had  left  the  room. 

"Yes,"  said  another  dignitary,  "only  I  think  that 
the  undertaking  must  be  looked  upon  as  conditional. 
I  understand,  well,  that  the  money  belongs  to  Mrs. 
Bull." 

"Probably  she  will  endorse  the  bond  as  she  is  a 
liberal  little  woman,"  said  the  Dean,  "and  in  any 
case  our  brother  Bull,  if  I  may  be  pardoned  a  vulgar- 
ism, will  knock  the  stuffing  out  of  that  pestilent 
Menzi  and  his  crowd." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  asked  tKe  other.  "I  am  not 
so  certain.  I  have  met  old  Menzi,  and  he  is  a  tough 


LITTLE  FLOWER  149 

nut  to  crack.  He  may  'knock  the  stuffing  out  of 
him.  Bull,  sound  as  he  is  and  splendid  as  he  is  in 
many  ways,  does  not,  it  seems  to  me,  quite  under- 
stand natives,  or  that  it  is  easier  to  lead  than  to  drive 
them." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  the  Dean,  "but  in  the  case  of 
these  Sisas  it  is  rather  a  matter  of  Hobson's  choice, 
isn't  it?" 

So  this  affair  was  settled,  and  in  due  course 
Thomas  received  his  letter  of  appointment  as  priest- 
in-charge  of  the  Sisa  station. 

On  his  arrival  home  a  few  days  later,  where  he 
was  not  expected  till  the  following  week,  Thomas 
was  so  pre-occupied  that  he  scarcely  seemed  to  notice 
his  wife's  affectionate  greeting;  even  the  fact  that 
both  she  and  Tabitha  were  arrayed  in  smart  and 
unmissionary-like  garments  escaped  him.  Dorcas 
also  looked  pre-occupied,  the  truth  being  that  she  had 
asked  a  few  young  people,  officers  and  maidens  of 
the  place  (alas!  as  it  chanced, -among  them  were 
no  clergy  or  their  wives  and  daughters),  to  play 
tennis  that  afternoon  and  some  of  them  to  stop  to 
supper.  Now  she  was  wondering  how  her  austere 
spouse  would  take  the  news.  He  might  be  cross  and 
lecture  her ;  when  he  was  both  cross  and  lectured  the 
combination  was  not  agreeable. 

A  few  formal  inquiries  as  to  healtE  and  a  certain 
sick  person  were  made  and  answered.  Dorcas 
assured  him  that  they  were  both  quite  well,  Tabitha 
especially,  and  that  she  had  visited  the  afflicted 
woman  as  directed. 


150  LITTLE  FLOWER 

"And  how  was  she,  dear?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  dear/'  she  answered.  "You  see, 
when  I  got  to  the  house  I  met  Mrs.  Tomley,  the 
Rector's  wife,  at  the  door,  and  she  said,  rather 
pointedly  I  thought,  that  she  and  her  husband  were 
looking  after  the  case,  and  though  grateful  for  the 
kind  assistance  you  had  rendered,  felt  that  they  need 
not  trouble  us  any  more,  as  the  patient  was  a 
parishioner  of  theirs." 

"Did  they?"  said  Thomas  with  a  frown.  "Con- 
sidering all  things — well,  let  it  be." 

Dorcas  was  quite  content  to  do  so,  for  she  was 
aware  that  her  husband's  good-heartedness  was  apt 
to  be  interpreted  as  a  kind  of  poaching  by  some  who 
should  have  known  better,  and  that  in  fact  the 
ground  was  dangerous. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  she  began 
nervously,  "about  an  arrangement  I  have  made  for 
this  afternoon." 

Mr.  Bull,  who  was  drinking  a  tumbler  of  water — 
he  was  a  teetotaller  and  non-smoker,  and  one  of  his 
grievances  was  that  his  wife  found  it  desirable  to 
take  a  little  wine  for  the  Pauline  reason — set  it  down 
and  said : 

"Never  mind  your  afternoon  arrangements,  my 
dear ;  they  are  generally  of  a  sort  that  can  be  altered, 
for  7  have  something  to  tell  you,  something  very 
important.  My  call  has  come." 

"Your  call,  dear.  What  call?  I  did  not  know 
that  you  expected  anyone — and,  by  the  way — " 

She  got  no  further,  for  her  husband  inter- 
rupted. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  151 

"Do  not  be  ridiculous,  Dorcas.  I  said  call — not 
caller,  and  I  use  the  word  in  its  higher  sense." 

"Oh !  I  understand,  forgive  me  for  being  so  stupid. 
Have  they  made  you  a  bishop?" 

"A  bishop— " 

"I  mean  a  dean,  or  an  archdeacon,  or  something !" 
she  went  on  confusedly. 

"No,  Dorcas,  they  have  not.  I  could  scarcely 
expect  promotion  as  yet,  though  it  is  true  that  I 
thought — but  never  mind,  others  no  doubt  have  bet- 
ter claims  and  longer  service.  I  have,  however, 
been  honoured  with  a  most  responsible  duty." 

"Indeed,  dear.    What  duty?" 

"I  have  been  nominated  priest-in-charge  of  the 
Sisa  Station." 

"O-oh!  and  where  is  that?  Is  it  anywhere  near 
Durban,  or  perhaps  Maritzburg?" 

"I  don't  exactly  know  at  present,  though  I  under- 
stand that  it  is  about  six  days'  trek  from  Eshowe  in 
Zululand,  but  over  the  border  in  Portuguese  terri- 
tory. Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  one  can  trek  all 
the  way,  at  least  when  the  rivers  are  in  flood.  Then 
it  is  necessary  to  cross  one  of  them  in  a  basket  slung 
upon  a  rope,  or  if  the  river  is  not  too  full,  in  a  punt. 
At  this  season  the  basket  is  most  used." 

"Great  Heavens,  Thomas !  do  you  propose  to  put 
me  and  Tabbie  in  a  basket,  like  St.  Paul,  and  did 
you  remember  that  we  have  just  taken  on  this  house 
for  another  year?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  The  families  of  missionaries 
must  expect  to  face  hardships,  from  which  it  is  true 
circumstances  have  relieved  you  up  to  the  present. 


152  LITTLE  FLOWER 

It  is  therefore  only  right  that  they  should  begin  now, 
when  Tabitha  has  become  as  strong  as  any  child  of 
her  age  that  I  know.  As  for  the  house,  I  had  for- 
gotten all  about  it.  It  must  be  relet,  or  failing  that 
we  must  bear  the  loss,  which  fortunately  we  can  well 
afford." 

Dorcas  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing  because 
words  failed  her,  so  he  went  on  hurriedly. 

"By  the  way,  love,  I  have  taken  a  slight  liberty: 
with  your  name.  It  appears  that  the  church  at  Sisa, 
which  I  understand  was  quite  a  nice  one  built  with 
subscriptions  obtained  in  England  by  one  of  my  pre- 
decessors who  chanced  to  have  influence  or  connec- 
tions at  home,  has  been  recently  burnt  down,  together 
with  the  mission-house.  Now  the  house  can  wait, 
since,  of  course,  we  can  make  shift  for  a  year  or  two 
in  some  native  huts,  but  obviously  we  must  have  a 
church,  and  as  the  Society  is  overdrawn  it  cannot 
help  in  the  matter.  Under  these  circumstances  I 
ventured  to  promise  a  gift  of  a  £1,000,  which  it  is 
estimated  will  cover  the  re-erection  of  both  church 
and  house." 

He  paused  awaiting  a  reply,  but  as  Dorcas  still 
said  nothing,  continued. 

"You  will  remember  that  you  told  me  quite 
recently  that  you  found  you  had  £1,500  to  your 
credit,  therefore  I  felt  quite  sure  that  you  would  not 
grudge  £1,000  of  it  to  enable  me  to  fulfil  this  duty — 
this  semi-divine  duty." 

"Oh !"  said  Dorcas.  "As  a  matter  of  fact  I  in- 
tended to  spend  that  £1,000,  or  much  of  it,  otherwise. 
There  are  some  people  here  whom  I  wanted  to  help, 


LITTLE  FLOWER  153 

but  fortunately  I  had  not  mentioned  this  to  them, 
so  they  will  have  to  do  without  the  money  and  their 
holiday;  also  the  children  cannot  be  sent  to  school. 
And,  by  the  way,  how  is  Tabbie  to  be  educated  in 
this  far-away  place  ?" 

"I  am  sorry,  dear,  but  after  all  private  luxuries, 
including  that  of  benevolence,  must  give  way  to 
sacred  needs,  so  I  will  write  to  the  Dean  that  the 
money  will  be  forthcoming  when  it  is  needed.  As 
for  Tabitha's  education,  of  course  we  will  undertake 
it  between  us,  at  any  rate  for  the  next  few  years." 

"Yes,  Thomas,  since  you  have  passed  your  word, 
or  rather  my  word,  the  money  will  be  forthcoming. 
But  meanwhile,  if  you  can  spare  me  the  odd  £500, 
I  suggest  that  I  should  stay  here  with  Tabbie,  who 
could  continue  to  attend  the  college  as  a  day-scholar, 
while  you  get  us  some  place  ready  to  live  in  among 
these  savages,  the  Sneezers,  or  whatever  they  are 
called." 

"My  dear,"  answered  Thomas,  "consider  what 
you  ask.  You  are  in  perfect  health  and  so  is  our 
child.  Would  it  not,  then,  be  a  downright  scandal 
that  you  should  stop  here  in  luxury  while  your 
husband  went  out  to  confront  grave  difficulties 
among  the  Sisas — not  the  Sneezers — for  I  may  tell 
you  at  once  that  the  difficulties  are  very  grave? 
There  is  a  noted  witch-doctor  amongst  this  people 
named  Menzi,  who,  I  understand,  is  suspected  of 
having  burned  down  the  mission-house,  and  prob- 
ably the  church  also,  because  he  said  that  it  was 
ridiculous  that  an  unmarried  man  like  the  late  priest 
should  have  so  large  a  dwelling  to  live  in  alone. 


154  LITTLE  FLOWER 

This,  of  course,  was  but  a  cunning  excuse  for  his 
savage  malevolence,  but  if  another  apparent  celibate 
arrives,  he  might  repeat  the  argument  and  its  appli- 
cation. Also  often  these  barbarians  consider  that  a 
man  who  is  not  married  must  be  insane! 
Therefore  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  you 
and  the  child  should  be  present  with  me  from  the 
first." 

"Oh!  is  it?"  said  Dorcas,  turning  very  pink. 
"Well,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  just  now  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  that  I  should  be  absent  from  you, 
since  I  have  a  tennis  party  this  afternoon — the  offi- 
cers of  the  garrison  are  coming  and  about  half  a 
dozen  girls — and  I  must  go  to  arrange  about  the 
tea." 

"A  tennis  party !  A  tennis  party  to  those  godless 
officers  and  probably  equally  godless  girls,"  ex- 
claimed her  husband.  "I  am  ashamed  of  you, 
Dorcas,  you  should  be  occupied  with  higher  things." 

Then  at  last  the  worm  turned. 

"Do  you  know,  Thomas,"  she  answered,  springing 
up,  "that  I  am  inclined  to  be  ashamed  of  you  too, 
who  I  think  should  be  occupied  in  keeping  your 
temper.  You  have  accepted  some  strange  mission 
without  consulting  me,  you  have  promised  £1,000 
of  my  money  without  consulting  me,  and  now  you 
scold  me  because  I  have  a  few  young  people  to  play 
tennis  and  stop  to  supper.  It  is  unchristian,  it  is 
uncharitable,  it  is — too  bad !"  and  sitting  down  again 
she  burst  into  tears. 

The  Rev.  Thomas,  who  by  now  was  in  a  really 
regal  rage,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or  do,  glared 


LITTLE  FLOWER  155 

about  him.  By  ill-luck  his  eye  fell  upon  a  box  of 
cigarettes  that  stood  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

"What  are  those  things  doing  here?"  he  asked. 
"I  do  not  smoke,  so  they  cannot  be  for  me.  Is  our 
money — I  beg  pardon,  your  money  which  is  so  much 
needed  in  other  directions  to  be  wasted  in  providing 
such  unnecessaries  for — for  officers  and — idle  girls  ? 
Oh — bless  it  all/'  and  seizing  the  offending  cigar- 
ettes he  hurled  them  through  the  open  window,  a 
scattered  shower  of  white  tubes  which  some  Kaffirs 
outside  instantly  proceeded  to  collect. 

Then  he  rushed  from  the  house,  and  Dorcas  went 
to  get  ready  for  her  party.  But  first  she  sent  a 
servant  to  buy  another  box  of  cigarettes.  It  was 
her  first  act  of  rebellion  against  the  iron  rule  of  the 
Rev.  Thomas  Bull. 


Ill 

IN  the  end,  as  may  be  guessed,  Dorcas,  who  was  a 
good  and  faithful  little  soul,  accompanied  her  hus- 
band to  the  Sisa  country.  Tabitha  went  also,  rejoic- 
ing, having  learned  that  in  this  happy  land  there  was 
no  school.  Dorcas  found  the  journey  awful,  but 
really,  had  she  but  known  it,  it  was  most  fortunate, 
indeed  ideal.  Her  husband,  who  was  a  little  anxious 
on  the  point,  had  made  the  best  arrangements  that 
were  possible  on  such  an  expedition. 

The  wagon  in  which  they  trekked  was  good  and 
comfortable,   and  although   it  was  still  the  rainy 


156  LITTLE  FLOWER 

season,  fortune  favoured  them  in  the  matter  of 
weather,  so  that  when  they  came  to  the  formidable 
river,  they  were  actually  able  to  trek  across  it  with 
the  help  of  some  oxen  borrowed  from  a  missionary 
in  that  neighbourhood,  without  having  recourse  to 
the  dreaded  rope-slung  basket,  or  even  to  the  punt. 

Beyond  the  river  they  were  met  by  some  Christian 
Kaffirs  of  the  Sisa  tribe,  who  were  sent  by  the  Chief 
Kosa  to  guide  them  through  the  hundred  miles  or  so 
of  difficult  country  which  still  lay  between  them  and 
their  goal.  These  men  were  pleasant-spoken  but 
rather  depressed  folk,  clad  in  much-worn  European 
clothes  that  somehow  became  them  very  ill.  They 
gave  a  melancholy  account  of  the  spiritual  condition 
of  the  Sisas,  who  since  the  death  of  their  last  pastor, 
they  said,  were  relapsing  rapidly  into  heathenism 
under  the  pernicious  influence  of  Menzi,  the  witch- 
doctor. Therefore  Kosa  sent  his  greetings  and 
prayed  the  new  Teacher  to  hurry  to  their  aid  and 
put  a  stop  to  this  state  of  things. 

"Fear  nothing,"  said  Thomas  in  a  loud  voice, 
speaking  in  Zulu,  which  by  now  he  knew  very  well. 
"I  will  put  a  stop  to  it/' 

Then  they  asked  him  his  name.  He  replied  that 
it  was  Thomas  Bull,  which  after  the  native  fashion, 
having  found  out  what  bull  meant  in  English,  they 
translated  into  a  long  appellation  which,  strictly 
rendered,  meant  Roaring-Leader-of-the-holy-Herd. 
When  he  found  this  out,  Thomas  flatly  declined  any 
such  unchristian  title,  with  the  result  that,  anxious 
to  oblige,  they  christened  him  "Tombool,"  and  as 
"Tombool"  thenceforward  he  was  known.  (Dorcas 


LITTLE  FLOWER  157 

objected  to  this  name,  but  Tabitha  remarked  sagely 
that  at  any  rate  it  was  better  than  "Tomfool.") 

This  was  to  his  face,  but  behind  his  back  they 
called  him  Inkunzi,  which  means  bull,  and  in  order 
to  keep  up  the  idea,  designated  poor  Dorcas  Isidanda, 
that  being  interpreted  signified  a  gentle-natured  cow. 
To  Tabitha  they  gave  a  prettier  name,  calling  her 
Imba  or  Little  Flower. 

At  first  Dorcas  was  quite  pleased  with  her  title, 
which  sounded  nice,  but  when  she  came  to  learn  what 
it  meant  it  was  otherwise. 

"How  can  you  expect  me,  Thomas,  to  live  among 
a  people  who  call  me  'a  mild  cow'?"  she  asked 
indignantly. 

"Never  mind,  my  dear,"  he  answered.  "In  their 
symbolical  way  they  are  only  signifying  that  you 
will  feed  them  with  the  milk  of  kindness,"  a  reply 
which  did  not  soothe  her  at  all.  In  fact,  of  the  three 
the  child  alone  was  pleased,  because  she  said  that 
"Opening  Flower"  was  a  prettier  name  than  Tabbie, 
which  reminded  her  of  cats. 

Thenceforward,  following  a  track,  for  it  could  not 
be  called  a  road,  they  advanced  slowly,  first  over  a 
mountain  pass  on  the  farther  side  of  which  the  wagon 
nearly  upset,  and  then  across  a  great  bush-clad  plain 
where  there  was  much  game  and  the  lions  roared 
round  them  at  night,  necessitating  great  fires  to 
frighten  them  away.  These  lions  terrified  Dorcas,  a 
town-bred  woman  who  had  never  seen  one  of  them 
except  in  the  Zoo,  so  much  that  she  could  scarcely 
sleep,  but  oddly  enough  Tabitha  was  not  disturbed 
by  them. 


158  LITTLE  FLOWER 

"God  will  not  let  us  be  eaten  by  a  lion,  will  He, 
Father?"  she  asked  in  her  simple  faith. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  answered,  "and  if  the  brute 
tries  to  do  so  I  shall  shoot  it." 

"I'd  rather  trust  to  God,  Father,  because  you  know 
you  can  never  hit  anything,"  replied  Tabitha. 

Fortunately,  however,  it  never  became  necessary 
for  Thomas  to  show  his  skill  as  a  marksman,  for 
when  they  got  through  the  bushveld  there  were  no 
more  lions. 

On  the  fourth  day  after  they  left  the  river  they 
found  themselves  upon  gentle  sloping  veld  that  by 
degrees  led  them  upwards  to  high  land  where  it  was 
cold  and  healthy  and  there  were  no  mosquitoes.  For 
two  days  they  trekked  over  these  high  lands,  which 
seemed  to  be  quite  uninhabited  save  by  herds  of 
feeding  buck,  till  at  length  they  attained  their  crest, 
and  below  them  saw  a  beautiful  mimosa-clad  plain 
which  the  guides  told  them  was  the  Sisa  Country. 

"The  Promised  Land  at  last!  It  makes  me  feel 
like  another  Moses,"  said  Thomas,  waving  his  arm. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  lovely!"  exclaimed  Tabitha. 

"Yes,  dear/'  answered  her  mother,  "but — but  I 
don't  see  any  town." 

This  indeed  was  the  case  because  there  was  none, 
the  Sisa  kraal,  for  it  could  not  be  dignified  by  any 
other  name,  being  round  a  projecting  ridge  and  out 
of  sight.  For  the  rest  the  prospect  was  very  fair, 
being  park-like  in  character,  with  dotted  clumps  of 
trees  among  which  ran,  or  rather  wound,  a  silver 
stream  that  seemed  to  issue  from'  between  two  rocky 
koppies  in  the  distance. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  159 

These  koppies,  the  guides  told  them,  were  the 
gates  of  Sisa  Town.  They  neglected  to  add  that  it 
lay  in  a  hot  and  unhealthy  hill-ringed  hollow  beyond 
them,  the  site  having  originally  been  chosen  because 
it  was  difficult  to  attack,  being  only  approachable 
through  certain  passes.  Therefore  it  was  a  very 
suitable  place  in  which  to  kraal  the  cattle  of  the  Zulu 
kings  in  times  of  danger.  That  day  they  travelled 
down  the  declivity  mto  the  plain,  where  they  camped. 
By  the  following  afternoon  they  came  to  the  koppies 
through  which  the  river  ran,  and  asked  its  name. 
The  answer  was  Ukufa. 

"Ukufa?"  said  Thomas.  "Why,  that  means 
Death." 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "because  in  the  old  days  this 
river  was  the  River  of  Death  where  evil-doers  were 
sent  to  be  slain." 

"How  horrible!"  said  Dorcas,  for  unfortunately 
she  had  overheard  and  understood  this  conversation. 

By  the  side  of  the  river  was  a  kind  of  shelf  of  rock 
that  was  used  as  a  road,  and  over  this  they  bumped 
in  their  wagon,  till  presently  they  were  past  the 
koppies  and  could  see  their  future  home  beyond.  It 
was  a  plain  some  miles  across,  and  entirely  sur- 
rounded by  precipitous  hills,  the  river  entering  it 
through  a  gorge  to  the  north.  In  the  centre  of  this 
plain  was  another  large  koppie  of  which  the  river 
Ukufa,  or  Death,  washed  one  side.  Around  this 
koppie,  amid  a  certain  area  of  cultivated  land,  stood 
the  "town"  of  the  Christian  branch  of  the  Sisa.  It 
consisted  of  groups  of  huts,  ten  or  a  dozen  groups  in 
all,  set  on  low  ground  near  the  river,  which  sug- 


i6o  LITTLE  FLOWER 

gested  that  the  population  might  "number  anything 
between  seven  hundred  and  a  thousand  souls. 

At  the  time  that  our  party  first  saw  it  the  sun  was 
sinking,  and  had  disappeared  behind  the  western 
portion  of  the  barricade  of  hills.  Therefore  the  val- 
ley, if  it  may  be  so  called,  was  plunged  in  a  gloom 
that  seemed  almost  unnatural  when  compared  with 
the  brilliant  sky  above,  across  which  the  radiant 
lights  of  an  African  sunset  already  sped  like  arrows, 
or  rather  like  red  and  ominous  spears  of  flame. 

"What  a  dreadful  place !"  exclaimed  Dorcas.  "Is 
our  home  to  be  here  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  answered  Thomas,  who  to  tell  the 
truth  for  once  was  himself  somewhat  dismayed. 
"It  does  look  a  little  gloomy,  but  after  all  it  is  very 
sheltered,  and  home  is  what  one  makes  it,"  he  added 
sententiously. 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  the  Chief  and  some  of  the  Christian  por- 
tion of  the  Sisa  tribe,  who  having  been  warned  of  its 
approach  by  messenger,  to  the  number  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  or  so  had  advanced  to  meet  the  party. 

They  were  a  motley  crowd  clad  in  every  kind  of 
garment,  ranging  from  a  moth-eaten  General's  tunic 
to  practically  nothing  at  all.  Indeed,  one  tall,  thin 
fellow  sported  only  a  battered  helmet  of  rusty  steel 
that  had  drifted  here  from  some  European  army,  a 
moocha  or  waistbelt  of  catskins,  and  a  pair  of  de- 
cayed tennis-shoes  through  which  his  toes  appeared. 
With  them  came  what  were  evidently  the  remains  of 
the  church  choir,  when  there  was  a  church,  for  they 
wore  dirty  fragments  of  surplices  and  sang  what 


LITTLE  FLOWER  161 

seemed  to  be  a  hymn  tune  to  the  strains  of  a  decadent 
accordion. 

The  tune  was  long  and  ended  in  a  kind  of  howl 
like  to  that  of  a  disappointed  jackal.  When  at 
length  it  was  finished  the  Chief  Kosa  appeared.  He 
was  a  middle-aged  man,  become  prematurely  old 
because  he  had  lived  too  fast  in  his  pre-Christian 
days,  or  so  report  said.  Now  he  had  a  somewhat 
imbecile  appearance,  for  his  fingers  twitched  and 
when  he  spoke  his  mouth  jerked  up  at  the  corners; 
also  he  kept  looking  over  his  shoulder  as  though  he 
were  afraid  of  something  behind  him.  Altogether 
he  inspired  Thomas  with  no  confidence.  Whatever 
else  he  might  be,  clearly  he  was  not  a  staff  for  a 
crusader  to  lean  upon. 

Still  he  came  forward  and  made  a  very  nice  speech, 
as  a  high-bred  native  noble,  such  as  he  was,  can 
almost  invariably  do.  With  many  pious  expressions 
he  welcomed  the  new  Teacher,  saying  that  he  and  his 
people,  that  is  those  of  them  who  were  Christians, 
would  do  their  best  to  make  him  happy. 

Thomas  thanked  him  in  appropriate  language, 
adding  that  he  on  his  part  would  do  his  best  to  pro- 
mote their  welfare  and  to  save  their  souls. 

Kosa  replied  that  he  was  glad  to  hear  it,  because 
these  needed  saving,  since  most  of  the  Sisa  people 
were  now  servants  of  the  devil.  Since  the  last 
Umfundisi,  or  Teacher,  died,  they  had  been  walking 
the  road  to  hell  at  a  very  great  pace,  marrying  many 
wives,  drinking  gin  and  practising  all  kinds  of  witch- 
craft under  the  guidance  of  the  Isanusi  or  doctor, 
Menzi.  This  man,  he  added,  had  burned  down  the 


162  LITTLE  FLOWER 

church  and  the  mission-house  by  his  magic,  though 
these  had  seemed  to  be  destroyed  by  lightning. 

With  a  proud  gesture  Thomas  announced  that  he 
would  soon  settle  Menzi  and  all  his  works,  and  that 
meanwhile,  as  the  darkness  was  coming  on,  he  would 
be  glad  if  Kosa  would  lead  them  to  the  place  where 
they  were  to  sleep. 

So  they  started,  the  accordion-man,  playing 
execrably,  leading  the  way,  and  trekked  for  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  till  they  came  to  the  koppie  in  the 
centre  of  the  plain,  reaching  it  by  following  the  left 
bank  of  the  river  that  washed  its  western  face. 

Passing  between  a  number  of  tumbled  walls  built 
of  loose  stones,  that  once  in  bygone  generations  had 
sheltered  the  cattle  of  Chaka  and  other  Zulu  kings, 
they  reached  a  bay  in  the  side  of  the  koppie  that  may 
have  covered  four  acres  of  ground.  Here  by  the 
edge  of  the  river,  but  standing  a  little  above  it,  were 
the  burnt-out  ruins  of  a  building  that  by  its  shape 
evidently  had  been  a  church,  and  near  to  it  other 
ruins  of  a  school  and  of  a  house  which  once  was  the 
mission-station. 

As  they  approached  they  heard  swelling  from 
within  those  cracked  and  melancholy  walls  the  sound 
of  a  fierce,  defiant  chant  which  Thomas  guessed  must 
be  some  ancient  Zulu  war-song,  as  indeed  it  was. 
It  was  a  very  impressive  song,  chanted  by  many 
people,  which  informed  the  listeners  that  those  who 
sung  it  were  the  King's  oxen,  born  to  kill  the  King's 
enemies,  and  to  be  killed  for  the  King,  and  so  forth ; 
a  deep-noted,  savage  song  that  thrilled  the  blood,  at 


LITTLE  FLOWER  163 

the  first  sound  of  which  the  accordion  gave  a  feeble 
wail  and  metaphorically  expired. 

"Isn't  that  beautiful  music,  Father.  I  never  heard 
anything  like  that  before,"  exclaimed  Tabitha. 

Before  Thomas  could  answer,  out  from  the  ruined 
doorway  of  the  Church  issued  a  band  of  men — there 
might  have  been  a  hundred  of  them — clad  in  all  the 
magnificent  panoply  of  old-time  Zulu  warriors,  with 
tall  plumes  upon  their  heads,  large  shields  upon  their 
arms,  kilts  about  their  middles,  and  fringes  of  oxtails 
hanging  from  their  knees  and  elbows.  They 
formed  into  a  double  line  and  advanced,  waving 
broad-bladed  assegais.  Then  at  a  signal  they 
halted  by  the  wagon  and  uttered  a  deep-throated 
salute. 

In  front  of  their  lines  was  a  little  withered  old 
fellow  who  carried  neither  shield  nor  spear,  but  only 
a  black  rod  to  which  was  bound  the  tail  of  a  wilde- 
beeste.  Except  for  his  moocha  he  was  almost  naked, 
and  into  his  grey  hair  was  woven  a  polished  ring  of 
black  gum,  from  which  hung  several  little  bladders. 
Upon  his  scraggy  neck  was  a  necklace  of  baboon's 
teeth  and  amulets,  whilst  above  the  moocha  was 
twisted  a  snake  that  might  have  been  either  alive  or 
stuffed. 

His  face,  though  aged  and  shrunken,  was  fine- 
featured  and  full  of  breeding,  while  his  hands  and 
feet  were  very  small;  his  eyes  were  brooding,  the 
eyes  of  a  mystic,  but  when  his  interest  was  excited 
their  glance  was  as  sharp  as  a  bradawl.  Just  now  it 
was  fixed  on  Thomas,  who  felt  as  if  it  were  piercing 
him  through  and  through.  The  owner  of  the  eyes, 


164  LITTLE  FLOWER 

as  Thomas  guessed  at  once,  was  Menzi,  a  witch- 
doctor very  famous  in  those  parts. 

"Why  are  these  men  arrmd  with  spears?  It  is 
against  the  law  for  Kaffirs  to  carry  spears/'  he  said 
to  the  Chief. 

"This  is  Portuguese  Territory ;  there  is  no  law  in 
Portuguese  Territory,"  answered  Kosa  with  a  vacant 
stare. 

"Then  we  might  be  all  murdered  here  and  no 
notice  taken/'  exclaimed  Thomas. 

"Yes,  Teacher.  Many  people  have  been  murdered 
here:  my  father  was  murdered,  and  I  dare  say  I 
shall  be." 

"Who  by?" 

Kosa  made  no  answer,  but  his  vacant  eyes  rested 
for  a  little  while  on  Menzi. 

"Good  God!  what  a  country,"  said  Thomas  to 
himself,  looking  at  Dorcas  who  was  frightened. 
Then  he  turned  to  meet  Menzi,  who  was  advancing 
towards  them. 

Casting  a  glance  of  contempt  at  Kosa  of  whom 
he  took  no  further  notice,  Menzi  saluted  the  new- 
comers by  lifting  his  hand  above  his  head.  Then 
with  the  utmost  politeness  he  drew  a  snuff-box 
fashioned  from  the  tip  of  a  buffalo-horn  out  of  a  slit 
in  the  lobe  of  his  left  ear,  extracted  the  wooden 
stopper  and  offered  Thomas  some  snuff. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  do  not  take  that  nastiness," 
said  Thomas. 

Menzi  sighed  as  though  in  disappointment,  and 
having  helped  himself  to  a  little,  re-stoppered  the 
horn  and  thrust  it  back  into  the  lobe  of  his  ear. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  165 

Next  he  said,  speaking  in  a  gentle  and  refined  voice : 

"Greeting,  Teacher,  who,  the  messengers  tell  us, 
are  called  Tombool  in  your  own  language  and  in  ours 
Inkunsi.  A  good  name,  for  in  truth  you  look  like 
a  bull.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  are  much  more 
robust  than  was  the  last  Teacher,  and  therefore  will 
live  longer  in  this  place  than  he  did.  Though  as  for 
the  lady-teacher — "  and  he  glanced  at  the  delicate- 
looking  Dorcas. 

Thomas  stared  at  this  man,  to  whom  already  he 
had  taken  a  strong  dislike.  Then  moved  thereto 
either  by  a  very  natural  outburst  of  temper,  or  per- 
chance by  a  flash  of  inspiration,  he  replied : 

"Yes,  I  shall  live  longer  than  did  my  brother,  who 
died  here  and  has  gone  to  Heaven,  and  longer  I 
think  than  you  will." 

This  personal  remark  seemed  to  take  Menzi  aback ; 
indeed  for  a  moment  he  looked  frightened.  Recover- 
ing himself,  however,  he  said : 

"I  perceive,  Teacher  Tombool,  that  like  myself 
you  are  a  witch-doctor  and  a  prophet.  At  present  I 
do  not  know  which  of  us  will  live  the  longer,  but  I 
will  consult  my  Spirits  and  tell  you  afterwards." 

"Pray  do  not  trouble  to  do  so  on  my  account,  for 
I  do  not  believe  in  your  Spirits." 

"Of  course  you  do  not,  Teacher.  No  doctor  be- 
lieves in  another  doctor's  Spirits,  since  each  has  his 
own,  and  there  are  more  Spirits  than  there  are 
doctors.  Teacher  Tombool,  I  greet  you  and  tell  you 
at  once  that  we  are  at  war  over  this  matter  of  Spirits. 
This  tribe,  Teacher,  is  a  cleft  log,  yes,  it  is  split  into 
two.  The  Chief  there,  Kosa,  sits  on  one  half  of  the 


1 66  LITTLE  FLOWER 

log  with  his  Christians ;  I  sit  on  the  other  half  with 
the  rest,  who  are  as  our  fathers  were.  So  if  you 
wish  to  fight  I  shall  fight  with  such  weapons  as  I 
have.  No,  do  not  look  at  the  spears — not  with 
spears.  But,  if  you  leave  me  and  my  following 
alone,  we  shall  leave  you  alone.  If  you  are  wise  I 
think  that  you  will  do  well  to  walk  your  own  road 
and  suffer  us  to  walk  ours." 

"On  the  contrary/'  answered  Thomas,  "I  intend 
that  all  the  Sisa  people  shall  walk  one  road,  the  road 
that  leads  to  Heaven." 

"Is  it  so,  Teacher?"  Menzi  replied  with  a  mys- 
terious smile. 

Then  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  the  darkling 
river  that  just  here,  where  it  ran  beneath  an  over- 
hanging ledge  of  the  koppie,  was  very  deep  and  still. 
Thomas  felt  that  there  was  a  world  of  meaning  in 
his  look,  though  what  it  might  be  he  did  not  know. 
Suddenly  he  remembered  that  this  river  was  named 
Death. 

After  Menzi  had  looked  quite  a  long  while,  once 
more  he  saluted  as  though  in  farewell,  searching  the 
faces  of  the  three  white  people,  especially  Tabitha's, 
with  his  dreamy  eyes  and,  letting  them  fall,  search- 
ing the  ground  also.  Near  to  where  he  stood  grew  a 
number  of  veld  flowers,  such  as  appear  in  their  glory 
after  the  rains  in  Africa.  Among  these  was  a  rare 
and  beautiful  white  lily.  This  lily  Menzi  plucked, 
and  stepping  forward,  presented  it  to  Tabitha, 
saying: 

"A  flower  for  the  Flower !  A  gift  to  a  child  from 
one  who  is  childless !" 


LITTLE  FLOWER  167 

Her  father  saw  and  meditated  interference.  But 
he  was  too  late;  Tabitha  had  already  taken  the  lily 
and  was  thanking  Menzi  in  his  own  tongue,  which 
she  knew  well  enough,  having  been  brought  up  by 
Zulu  nurses.  He  smiled  at  her,  saying: 

"All  Spirits,  black  or  white,  love  flowers." 

Then  for  a  third  time  he  saluted,  not  the  others, 
but  Tabitha,  with  more  heartiness  than  before,  and 
turning,  departed,  followed  by  his  spearmen,  who 
also  saluted  Tabitha  as  they  filed  in  front  of  her. 

It  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  these  great  plumed 
men  lifting  their  broad  spears  to  the  beautiful  bright- 
haired  child  who  stood  there  holding  the  tall  white 
lily  in  her  hand  as  though  it  were  a  sceptre. 


IV 

WHEN  Menzi  and  his  company  had  departed, 
vanishing  round  the  corner  of  the  koppie,  Thomas 
again  asked  the  Chief  where  they  were  to  sleep,  an 
urgent  matter  as  darkness  was  now  approaching. 

Kosa  answered  with  his  usual  vagueness  that  he 
supposed  in  the  hut  where  the  late  Teacher  had  died 
after  the  mission-house  was  burnt  down.  So  they 
trekked  on  a  little  way,  passing  beneath  the  shelf  of 
rock  that  has  been  mentioned  as  projecting  from  that 
side  of  the  koppie  which  overhung  the  stream, 
where  there  was  just  room  for  a  wagon  to  travel 
between  the  cliff  and  the  water. 

"What  a  dark  road,"  said  Dorcas,  and  one  of  the 


i68  LITTLE  FLOWER 

Christian  natives  who  understood  some  English, 
having  been  the  body-servant  of  the  late  missionary 
— it  was  he  with  the  accordion — replied  in  Zulu : 

"Yes,  Lady;  this  rock  is  called  the  Rock  of  Evil- 
doers, because  once  those  accused  of  witchcraft  and 
others  were  thrown  from  it  by  the  order  of  the  King, 
to  be  eaten  by  the  crocodiles  in  that  pool.  But,"  he 
added,  brightening  up,  "do  not  be  afraid,  for  there 
are  no  more  Zulu  kings  and  we  have  hunted  away 
the  crocodiles,  though  it  is  true  there  are  still  plenty 
of  wizards  who  ought  to  be  thrown  from  the  rock," 
and  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction 
Menzi  had  taken,  adding  in  a  low  voice,  "You  have 
just  seen  the  greatest  of  them,  Lady." 

"How  horrible !"  said  Dorcas  for  the  second  time. 

A  few  yards  farther  on  they  emerged  from  this 
tunnel-like  roadway  and  found  themselves  travelling 
along  the  northern  face  of  the  koppie.  Here,  sur- 
rounded by  a  fence,  stood  the  Chief's  kraal,  and  just 
outside  of  it  a  large,  thatched  hut  with  one  or  two 
smaller  huts  at  its  back.  It  was  a  good  hut  of  its 
sort,  being  built  after  the  Basuto  fashion  with  a 
projecting  roof  and  a  doorway,  and  having  a  kind 
of  veranda  floored  with  beaten  lime. 

"This  was  the  Teacher's  house,"  said  Kosa  as  the 
wagon  halted. 

"I  should  like  to  look  inside  it  at  once,"  remarked 
Dorcas  doubtfully,  adding:  "Why,  what's  that?" 
and  she  pointed  to  a  suspicious-looking,  oblong? 
mound  that  was  covered  with  weeds,  over  which  she 
had  almost  stumbled. 

"That  is  the  grave  of  the  late  Teacher,  Lady. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  169 

iWe  buried  him  here  because  Menzi's  people  took  up 
the  bones  of  those  who  were  in  the  churchyard  and 
threw  them  into  the  river,"  explained  Kosa. 

Dorcas  looked  as  though  she  were  going  to  faint, 
but  Thomas,  rising  to  the  occasion,  remarked : 

"Come  on,  dear.  The  dead  are  always  with  us, 
and  what  better  company  could  we  have  than  the 
dust  of  our  sainted  predecessor." 

"I  would  rather  have  his  room,"  murmured 
Dorcas,  and  gathering  herself  together,  proceeded  to 
the  hut. 

Somebody  opened  the  door  with  difficulty,  and  as 
it  seemed  to  be  very  dark  within  Thomas  struck  a 
match,  by  the  light  of  which  Dorcas  peered  into  the 
interior.  Next  second  she  fell  back  into  his  arms 
with  a  little  scream. 

"Take  me  away!"  she  said.  "The  place  is  full  of 
rats." 

He  stared;  it  was  quite  true.  There,  sitting  up 
upon  the  dead  missionary's  bed,  was  a  singularly 
large  rat  that  did  not  seem  in  the  least  frightened  by 
their  appearance,  whilst  other  creatures  of  the  same 
tribe  scuttled  about  the  floor  and  up  the  walls. 

Dorcas  slept,  or  did  not  sleep,  that  night  in  the 
wagon  with  Tabitha,  whilst  Thomas  took  his  rest 
beneath  it  as  well  as  a  drizzling  rain  that  was  falling 
would  allow. 

Such  was  the  beginning  of  the  life  of  the  Bull 
family  in  Sisa-Land,  not  an  encouraging  beginning, 
it  will  be  admitted,  though  no  worse  and  perhaps 


170  LITTLE  FLOWER 

much  better  than  that  which  many  missionaries  and 
their  families  are  called  upon  to  face  in  various 
regions  of  the  earth.  What  horror  is  there  that 
missionaries  have  not  been  called  upon  to  endure? 
St.  Paul  tells  us  of  his  trials,  but  they  are  paralleled, 
if  not  surpassed,  even  in  the  present  day. 

Missionaries,  however  good,  may  not  always  be 
wise  folk;  the  reader  might  even  think  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Bull  to  be  no  perfect  embodiment  of 
wisdom,  sympathy  or  perhaps  manners,  but  taking 
them  as  a  class  they  are  certainly  heroic  folk,  who 
endure  many  things  for  small  reward,  as  we  reckon 
reward.  In  nothing  perhaps  do  they  show  their 
heroism  and  faith  more  greatly  than  in  their  per- 
sistent habit  of  conveying  women  and  young  chil- 
dren into  the  most  impossible  places  of  the  earth, 
there  to  suffer  many  things,  not  exclusive,  occasion- 
ally, of  martyrdom.  At  least  the  Protestant  section 
of  their  calling  does  this;  the  Roman  Catholics  are 
wiser.  In  renouncing  marriage  these  save  them- 
selves from  many  agonies,  and  having  only  their 
own  lives  and  health  at  stake,  are  perhaps  better 
fitted  to  face  rough  work  in  rough  places. 

Even  Thomas  Bull,  not  a  particularly  sensitive 
person,  was  tempted  more  than  once  to  arrive  at 
similar  conclusions  during  his  period  of  service  in 
Sisa-Land,  although  neither  he  nor  his  wife  or  child 
was  called  upon  to  face  the  awful  extremities  that 
have  confronted  others  of  his  cloth;  for  instance, 
another  Thomas,  one  Owen,  who  was  a  missionary 
in  Zululand  at  the  time  when  Dingaan,  the  King, 
massacred  Retief  and  his  Boers  beneath  his  eyes. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  171 

On  the  following  morning  Thomas  crept  out  from 
beneath  his  wagon,  not  refreshed,  it  is  true,  but  rilled 
with  a  renewed  and  even  more  fiery  zeal.  During 
those  damp  hours  of  unrest  he  had  reflected  much 
and  brought  the  whole  position  into  perspective,  a 
clear  if  a  narrow  perspective.  The  Chief  with  whom 
he  had  to  deal  evidently  was  a  fool,  if  not  an  imbe- 
cile, and  the  Christians  who  remained  after  a  gen- 
eration of  teaching  were  for  the  most  part  poor 
creatures,  the  weak-kneed  amongst  this  mixed- 
blooded  tribe,  probably  those  of  the  milder  Basuto 
origin. 

Such  strength  as  remained  in  the  people,  who  were, 
after  all,  but  a  dwindling  handful  marooned  in  a 
distant  spot,  was  to  be  found  among  those  of  the  old 
Zulu  stock.  They  were  descendants  of  the  men  sent 
by  the  Kings  Chaka  and  Dingaan  to  keep  an  eye 
upon  the  humble  Basuto  slaves,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
herd  the  royal  cattle,  the  men,  too,  to  whom  was 
entrusted  the  proud  but  hateful  business  of  carrying 
out  the  execution  of  persons  that,  for  one  reason  or 
another,  it  was  not  desirable  to  kill  at  home. 

The  individuals  detailed  for  these  duties  were  for 
the  most  part  of  high  blood,  inconvenient  persons, 
perhaps,  whom  it  was  desired  to  move  to  a  distance. 
Thus,  as  Thomas  Bull  soon  learned,  Menzi  was  said 
to  be  no  less  a  man  than  a  grandson  of  the  King 
Dingaan  himself,  one  whose  father  had  developed 
troublesome  ambitions,  but  whose  life  had  been 
spared  because  his  mother  was  a  favourite  with  the 
King. 

Hence  some  of  the  grandson's  pride,  which  was 


172  LITTLE  FLOWER 

enhanced  by  the  fact  that  in  his  youth  he  had  been 
trained  in  medicine  and  magic  by  a  certain  Zikali, 
alias  "Opener-of-Roads,"  who  was  said  to  have 
been  the  greatest  witch-doctor  that  ever  lived  in 
Zululand,  and  through  him  had  acquired,  or  perhaps 
developed  inherent  psychic  gifts,  that  were  in  any 
case  considerable. 

In  the  end,  however,  he  had  returned  to  his  petty 
tribe,  neglecting  larger  opportunities,  as  Thomas 
learned,  because  of  some  woman  to  whom  he  was 
attached  at  home.  It  seemed,  however,  that  he  might 
as  well  have  stayed  away,  since  on  his  arrival  he 
found  that  this  woman  had  become  one  of  the  Chief's 
wives,  for  which  reason  he  afterwards  killed  that 
Chief,  Kosa's  father,  and  possessed  himself  of  the 
woman,  who  died  immediately  afterwards,  as  Menzi 
suspected  by  poisoning.  It  was  principally  for  this 
reason  that  he  hated  Kosa,  his  enemy's  son,  and  all 
who  clung  to  him ;  and  partly  because  of  that  hatred 
and  the  fear  that  it  engendered  Kosa  and  his  people 
had  turned  Christian,  hoping  to  protect  themselves 
thus  against  Menzi  and  his  wizardries.  Also  for 
this  dead  woman's  sake,  Menzi  had  never  married 
again. 

Thomas  did  not  learn  all  these  details,  and  others 
that  need  not  be  mentioned,  at  once,  but  by  the  time 
he  crept  out  from  under  that  wagon  he  had  guessed 
enough  to  show  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  a  very 
tough  proposition,  and  being  the  man  he  was,  he 
girded  his  loins  to  meet  it,  vowing  that  he  would 
conquer  Menzi  or  die  in  the  attempt. 

That  very  morning  he  called  a  council  of  the 


LITTLE  FLOWER  173 

Christians  and  set  to  work  with  a  will.  The  first 
thing  to  do  was  to  make  the  late  missionary's  huts 
habitable,  which  did  not  take  long,  and  the  next  to 
commence  the  rebuilding  of  the  church.  Thomas, 
true  to  his  principles,  insisted  on  beginning  with  the 
church  and  letting  the  mission-house  stand  over, 
although  Dorcas,  small  blame  to  her,  complained  at 
being  obliged  to  live  for  an  indefinite  time  in  a  hut 
like  a  Kaffir  woman.  However,  as  usual,  she  was 
obliged  to  give  way. 

As  it  chanced,  here  there  was  little  difficulty  about 
building  operations,  for  stone  and  wood  and  tambuki 
grass  for  thatching  were  all  at  hand  in  plenty.  Also 
the  Basuto  section  of  the  Sisa,  as  is  common  among 
that  race,  were  clever  masons  and  carpenters,  some 
of  them  having  followed  those  trades  in.  Natal  and 
the  more  settled  places  in  Zululand,  where  dwellings 
had  to  be  erected.  Moreover,  they  possessed  wagons, 
and  now  that  the  dry  season  was  approaching  were 
able  to  fetch  stores  of  every  kind  from  the  borders  of 
Natal.  Lastly,  thanks  to  Dorcas's  banking  account, 
money  was  by  comparison  no  object,  an  unusual 
circumstance  where  missionaries  are  concerned. 

So  all  the  week  Thomas  laboured  at  these  matters 
and  at  making  himself  acquainted  with  his  congre- 
gation, and  all  Sunday  he  held  open-air  services  or 
taught  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  church. 

Thus  in  the  midst  of  so  many  new  interests  mat- 
ters went  on  not  uncomfortably,  and  Dorcas  became 
more  or  less  reconciled  to  her  life.  Still  she  could 
never  get  over  her  loathing  of  the  place  which  she 
believed  to  be  ill-omened,  perhaps  because  of  its 


174  LITTLE  FLOWER 

gloomy  aspect,  coupled  with  the  name  of  the  river 
and  the  uses  to  which  it  had  been  put,  after  all  not  so 
very  long  ago.  Naturally,  also  this  distaste  was 
accentuated  by  the  unlucky  circumstances  of  their 
arrival. 

Tabitha,  too,  was  really  happy,  since  she  loved  this 
wild  free  life,  and  having  been  brought  up  amongst 
Kaffirs  and  talking  their  language  almost  as  well  as 
she  did  her  own,  soon  she  made  many  friends. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  sense  that  the  information  would 
not  be  well  received  by  her  father  that  prevented  her 
from  mentioning  that  the  greatest  of  those  friends 
was  the  old  witch-doctor,  Menzi,  whom  she  often 
met  when  she  was  rambling  about  the  place.  Or  it 
may  have  been  pure  accident,  since  Thomas  was  too 
busy  to  bother  about  such  trifles,  while  her  mother, 
who  of  course  knew,  kept  her  own  counsel.  The 
truth  is  that  though  he  was  a  heathen  witch-doctor, 
Dorcas  liked  old  Menzi  better  than  any  other  native 
in  the  district,  because  she  said,  quite  truly,  that  he 
was  a  gentleman,  however  sinful  and  hard-hearted 
he  might  be.  Moreover,  with  a  woman's  perception 
she  felt  that  if  only  he  were  a  friend,  at  a  pinch  he 
would  be  worth  all  the  others  put  together,  while 
if  he  were  an  enemy,  conversely  the  same  applied. 

So  it  came  about  that  in  the  end  there  arose  a  very 
strange  state  of  affairs.  Menzi  hated  Thomas  and 
did  all  he  could  to  thwart  him.  He  liked  Dorcas  and 
did  all  he  could  to  help  her,  while  the  child  Tabitha 
he  came  to  worship,  for  some  reason  he  never  re- 
vealed, which  was  hidden  in  the  depths  of  his  secret 
soul ;  indeed  ere  long  had  she  been  his  own  daughter 


LITTLE  FLOWER  175 

he  could  not  have  loved  her  more.  It  was  he  who 
amongst  many  other  things  gave  her  the  pretty 
carved  walking-stick  of  black  and  white  umzimbeet 
wood,  also  the  two  young  blue  cranes  and  the  kid 
that  afterwards  were  such  pets  of  hers,  and  with 
them  the  beautiful  white  feathers  of  a  cock  ostrich 
that  had  been  killed  on  the  veld.  In  the  same  way  it 
was  he  who  sent  milk  and  eggs  to  Dorcas  when  she 
was  at  her  wits'  end  for  both,  which  more  than  once 
were  found  mysteriously  at  the  door  of  their  hut, 
and  not  any  of  his  Christian  flock,  as  Thomas  fondly 
imagined. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  a  while. 

Meanwhile  Thomas  found  this  same  Menzi  a 
stumbling-block  and  a  rock  of  offence.  Whenever 
he  tried  to  convert  man,  woman,  or  child  he  was 
confronted  with  Menzi  or  the  shadow  of  Menzi. 
Thus  those  with  whom  he  was  arguing  would  ask 
him  why  he  could  not  work  miracles  like  Menzi.  Let 
him  show  them  pictures  in  the  fire,  or  tell  them  who 
had  stolen  their  goods  or  where  they  would  find  their 
strayed  cattle,  and  perhaps  they  would  believe  him. 
And  so  forth. 

At  length  Thomas  grew  exasperated  and  an- 
nounced publicly  that  he  credited'  nothing  of  this 
magic,  and  that  Menzi  was  only  a  common  cheat 
who  threw  dust  in  their  eyes.  If  Menzi  could  per- 
form marvels,  let  him  show  these  marvels  to  him, 
Thomas,  and  to  his  wife,  that  they  might  judge  of 
them  for  themselves. 

Apparently  this  challenge  was  repeated  to  the 
witch-doctor.  At  least  one  morning  a  few  days  later, 


176  LITTLE  FLOWER 

when  Thomas  went  out  accompanied  by  Dorcas  and 
Tabitha,  to  meet  the  Chief  Kosa  and  others  and  to 
discuss  with  them  whether  ultimately  the  mission- 
house  should  be  rebuilt  upon  the  old  site  or  else- 
where, he  found  a  great  concourse  of  people,  all  or 
nearly  all  the  tribe  indeed,  assembled  on  a  level 
place  where  in  the  old  days  stood  one  of  the  great 
kraals  designed  to  hold  the  king's  cattle.  Out  of  the 
crowd  emerged  Kosa,  looking  rather  sillier  than 
usual,  and  of  him  Thomas  inquired  why  it  was 
gathered.  Was  it  to  consult  with  him  about  the 
mission-house? 

"No,  Teacher,"  answered  the  Chief,  "Menzi  has 
heard  that  you  call  him  a  cheat,  and  has  come  to  show 
that  he  is  none,  assembling  all  the  people  that  they 
may  judge  between  you  and  him." 

"I  do  not  want  to  see  his  tricks,"  said  Thomas 
angrily.  "Tell  him  to  go  away." 

"Oh,  Teacher!"  replied  Kosa,  "that  would  not  be 
wise,  for  then  everyone  would  believe  that  Menzi's 
magic  is  so  great  that  you  are  afraid  even  to  look 
upon  it.  It  is  better  to  let  him  try.  Perhaps  if  you 
pray  hard  he  will  fail,  for  his  spirits  will  not  always 
come  when  he  calls  them." 

Thomas  hesitated,  then,  being  bold  by  nature,  de- 
termined that  he  would  see  the  thing  through.  After 
all,  Menzi  was  an  imposter  and  nothing  else,  and 
could  work  no  more  magic  than  he  could  himself. 
Here  was  a  providential  opportunity  to  expose  him. 
So  followed  by  the  others  he  advanced  into  the 
crowd,  which  made  way  for  him. 

In  an  open  space  in  its  centre  sat  Menzi  wearing  all 


LITTLE  FLOWER  177 

his  witch-doctor's  trappings,  bladders  in  his  hair, 
snakeskin  tied  about  him,  and  the  rest,  but  even  in 
this  grotesque  attire  still  managing  to  look  dignified. 
With  him  were  several  acolytes  or  attendants,  one  of 
them  an  old  woman,  also  peculiarly  arrayed  and 
carrying  hide  bags  that  contained  their  master's  med- 
icines. He  rose  as  they  came,  saluted  Thomas  and 
smiled  at  Dorcas  and  Tabitha,  very  sweetly  at  the 
latter. 

"O  Teacher,"  he  said,  "my  ears  hear  that  you  say 
that  I  am  a  liar  and  a  cheat  who  have  no  wonders  at 
my  command ;  to  whom  the  Spirits  never  speak  and 
who  deceives  the  people.  Now,  Teacher,  I  have  come 
here  that  it  may  be  seen  whether  you  are  right  or  I 
am  right.  If  your  magic  is  greater  than  mine,  then 
I  can  do  nothing  and  I  will  eat  the  dust  before  you. 
But  if  mine  prevails,  then  perhaps  all  these  will  say 
that  you  are  the  cheat,  not  I.  Also  it  is  true  that  I  am 
not  a  great  magician  as  was  my  master,  Zikali,  the 
Opener-of-Roads,  and  cannot  show  you  things 
worthy  to  be  seen.  Nor  will  I  smell  out  evil-doers, 
witches  and  wizards,  since  then  the  people  might  kill 
them,  and  I  think  that  there  are  some  here  who  de- 
serve to  die  in  the  ancient  fashion.  No,  I  will  not  do 
this,  since  it  is  not  right  that  those  with  you,"  here 
he  glanced  at  Dorcas  and  Tabitha,  "should  look  upon 
the  sight  of  blood,  even  in  this  land  where  the  White- 
man's  law  has  no  power.  Still  there  are  little  things 
that  may  serve  to  amuse  you  for  an  hour  and  hurt  no 
one.  Have  any  of  you  lost  anything,  for  instance?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Tabitha  with  a  laugh. 

"Is  it  so,  Little  Flower?    Then  be  silent  and  do 


178  LITTLE  FLOWER 

not  say  what  you  have  lost.  Have  you  told  any  what 
you  have  lost  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Tabitha,  "because  I  was  afraid  I 
should  be  scolded." 

"There,  Imba,  there,  Little  Flower,  even  that  is  too 
much,  because  you  see  the  old  cheat  might  guess 
something  from  your  words.  Yes,  he  might  guess 
that  it  is  something  of  value  that  you  have  lost,  such 
as  a  bracelet  of  gold,  or  the  thing  that  ticks,  on  which 
you  white  people  read  the  time.  Nay,  be  silent  and 
do  not  let  your  face  move  lest  I  should  read  it.  Now 
let  us  see  what  it  is  that  you  have  lost." 

Then  he  turned  to  his  confederates,  as  Thomas 
called  them,  and  began  to  ask  them  questions  which 
need  not  be  set  out  in  detail.  Was  it  an  animal  that 
the  Little  Flower  had  lost?  No,  it  was  not  an  ani- 
mal, the  Spirits  told  them  that  it  was  not.  Was  it  an 
article  of  dress?  No,  they  did  not  think  it  was  an 
article  of  dress,  yet  the  Spirits  seemed  to  suggest  that 
it  had  something  to  do  with  dress.  Was  it  a  shoe? 
Was  it  scissors  ?  Was  it  a  comb  ?  Was  it  a  needle  ? 
No,  but  it  was  something  that  had  to  do  with  needles. 
What  had  to  do  with  needles?  Thread.  Was  it 
thread?  No,  but  something  that  had  to  do  with 
thread.  Was  it  a  silver  shield  which  pushed  the 
needle  that  drew  the  thread  ? 

Here  Tabitha  could  contain  herself  no  longer,  but 
clapped  her  hands  and  cried  out  delightedly : 

"Yes,  that's  it.    It's  my  thimble." 

"Oh !  very  well,"  said  Menzi,  "but  it  is  easy  to  dis- 
cover what  is  lost  and  hard  to  find  it." 

Then  followed  another  long  examination  of  the 


LITTLE  FLOWER  179 

assessors  or  acolytes,  or  witch-doctor's  chorus,  by 
which  it  was  established  at  length  that  the  thimble 
had  been  lost  three  days  before,  when  Tabitha  was 
sitting  on  a  stone  sewing,  that  she  believed 
it  had  fallen  into  a  crevice  of  the  rocks,  and  so 
forth. 

After  this  the  chorus  was  silent  and  Menzi  himself 
took  up  the  game,  apparently  asking  questions  of  the 
sky  and  putting  his  ear  to  the  ground  for  an  answer. 

At  length  he  announced:  (i)  That  the  thimble 
was  not  among  the  rocks ;  (2)  That  it  was  not  lost  at 
all. 

"But  it  is,  it  is,  you  silly  old  man,"  cried  Tabitha 
excitedly.  "I  have  hunted  everywhere,  and  I  cried 
about  it  because  I  haven't  got  another,  and  can't  buy 
one  here,  and  the  needle  hurts  my  finger." 

Menzi  contemplated  her  gravely  as  though  he  were 
looking  her  through  and  through. 

"It  is  not  lost,  Little  Flower.  I  see  it ;  you  have  it 
now.  Put  your  hand  into  the  pocket  of  your  dress. 
What  do  you  find  there?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Tabitha.  "That  is,  nothing  ex- 
cept a  hole." 

"Feel  at  the  bottom  of  your  dress,  there  on  the 
right.  No,  little  more  to  the  front.  What  do  you 
feel  there?" 

"Something  hard,"  said  Tabitha. 

"Take  this  knife  and  cut  the  lining  of  your  dress 
where  you  feel  the  hard  thing.  Ah !  there  is  the  silver 
shield  which  you  have  been  carrying  about  with  you 
all  these  days." 

The    crowd    murmured    approval.      Dorcas    ex- 


180  LITTLE  FLOWER 

claimed :  "Well,  I  never !"  and  Thomas  looked  first 
puzzled,  then  angry,  then  suspicious. 

"Does  the  Teacher  think  that  the  Floweret  and  the 
old  doctor  have  made  a  plot  together?"  asked  Menzi. 
"Can  a  sweet  Flower  make  plots  and  tell  lies  like  the 
old  doctor?  Well,  well,  it  is  nothing.  Now  let  us 
try  something  better.  My  bags,  my  bags." 

Thomas  made  as  though  he  would  go  away,  but 
Menzi  stopped  him,  saying : 

"No,  doubters  must  stay  to  see  the  end  of  their 
doubts.  What  shall  I  do?  Ah!  I  have  it." 

Then  from  one  of  the  bags  he  drew  out  a  number 
of  crooked  black  sticks  that  looked  like  bent  ebony 
rulers,  and  built  them  up  criss-cross  in  a  little  pile 
upon  the  ground.  Next  he  found  some  bundles  of 
fine  dried  grass,  which  he  thrust  into  the  interstices 
between  the  sticks,  as  he  did  so  bidding  one  of  his 
servants  to  run  to  the  nearest  hut  and  bring  a  coal  of 
fire  upon  a  sherd. 

"A  match  will  not  do,"  he  said.  "White  men  have 
touched  it." 

Presently  the  burning  ember  arrived,  and  mutter- 
ing something,  Menzi  blew  upon  it  as  though  to  keep 
it  alight. 

"Now,  White  Teacher,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  had 
suddenly  become  commanding,  "think  of  something. 
Think  of  what  you  will,  and  I  will  show  it  to  you." 

"Indeed,"  said  Thomas  with  a  smile.  "I  have 
thought  of  something;  now  make  good  your  words." 

Menzi  thrust  the  ember  into  the  haylike  fibres  and 
blew.  They  caught  and  blazed  up  fiercely,  making 
an  extraordinarily  large  flame  considering  the  small 


LITTLE  FLOWER  181 

amount  of  the  kindling.  The  ebony-like  sticks  also 
began  to  blaze.  Menzi  grew  excited. 

"My  Spirit,  come  to  me ;  my  Spirit,  come  to  me !" 
he  cried.  "O  my  Spirit,  show  this  White  Teacher 
Tombool  that  I  am  not  a  cheat !" 

He  ran  round  and  round  the  fire ;  he  leapt  into  the 
air,  then  suddenly  shouted :  "My  Spirit  has  entered 
into  me ;  my  Snake  is  in  my  breast !" 

All  his  excitement  went;  he  grew  quite  calm,  al- 
most cataleptic.  Holding  his  thin  hands  over  the  fire, 
slowly  he  let  them  fall,  and  as  he  did  so  the  fierce 
flames  died  down. 

"It's  going  out,"  said  Tabitha. 

Menzi  smiled  at  her  and  lifted  his  hands  again. 
Lo!  the  fire  that  seemed  to  be  dead  leapt  up  after 
them  in  a  fierce  blaze.  Again  he  dropped  his  hands 
and  the  fire  died  away.  Then  he  waved  his  arms  to 
and  fro  and  it  came  back,  following  the  motions  of 
his  arms  as  though  he  drew  it  by  a  string. 

"Have  you  thought,  White  Teacher?  Have  you 
thought?"  he  asked.  "Good!  Arise,  smoke!" 

Behold,  instead  of  the  clear  flame  appeared  a  fan- 
shaped  column  of  dense  white  smoke,  behind  which 
Menzi  vanished,  all  except  his  outstretched  hands. 

"Look  on  to  the  smoke,  White  people,  and  do  you, 
Little  Flower,  tell  me  what  you  see  there,"  he  called 
from  behind  this  vaporous  veil. 

Tabitha  stared,  they  all  stared.  Then  she  cied 
out: 

"I  see  a  room,  I  see  an  old  man  in  a  clergyman's 
coat  reading  a  letter.  Why,  it  is  the  Dean  whom  we 
used  to  know  in  Natal.  There's  the  wart  on  his  nose 


182  LITTLE  FLOWER 

and  the  tuft  of  hair  that  hangs  down  over  his  eye, 
and  he's  reading  a  letter  written  by  Father.  I  know 
the  writing.  It  begins,  'My  dear  Dean,  Providence 
has  appointed  me  to  a  strange  place' " 

"Is  that  what  you  see  also,  Teacher?"  asked 
Menzi.  "And  if  so,  is  it  what  you  pictured  in  your 
thought?" 

Thomas  turned  away  and  uttered  something  like 
a  groan,  for  indeed  he  had  thought  of  the  Dean  and 
of  the  letter  he  had  written  to  him  a  month  before. 

"The  Teacher  is  not  satisfied,"  said  Menzi.  "If 
he  had  seen  all  he  thought  of,  being  so  good  and  hon- 
est, he  would  tell  us.  There  is  some  mistake.  My 
Spirit  must  have  deceived  me.  Think  of  something 
else,  Teacher,  and  tell  the  lady,  and  the  child  Imba, 
and  Kosa,  and  another,  what  it  is  you  are  thinking 
of.  Go  aside  and  tell  them  where  I  cannot  hear." 

Thomas  did  so — in  some  way  he  felt  compelled  to 
do  so. 

"I  am  going  to  think  of  the  church  as  I  propose  it 
shall  be  when  finished  according  to  the  plans  I  have 
made,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  am  going  to  think  of  it 
with  a  belfry  spire  roofed  with  red  tiles  and  a  clock 
in  the  tower,  and  I  am  going  to  think  of  the  clock  as 
pointing  to  the  exact  hour  of  noon.  Do  you  all  un- 
derstand? It  is  impossible  that  this  man  should 
know  of  how  I  mean  to  build  that  spire  and  about  the 
clock,  because  until  this  moment  no  one  knew  except 
myself.  If  he  can  show  me  that,  I  shall  begin  to  be- 
lieve that  he  is  inspired  by  his  master,  the  devil.  Do 
you  all  understand?" 

They  said  they  did,  that  Menzi  called  out : 


LITTLE  FLOWER  183 

"Be  quick,  White  Teacher.  Be  quick,  I  grow 
tired.  My  Spirit  grows  tired.  The  smoke  grows 
tired.  Come,  come,  come!" 

They  returned  and  stood  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  in 
obedience  to  Menzi's  motions  once  more  the  fan  of 
smoke  arose.  On  it  grew  something  nebulous,  some- 
thing uncertain  that  by  degrees  took  the  form  of  a 
church.  It  was  not  very  clear,  perhaps  because 
Thomas  found  it  difficult  to  conceive  the  exact  shape 
of  the  church  as  it  would  be  when  it  was  finished,  or 
only  conceived  it  bit  by  bit.  One  thing,  however, 
was  very  distinct  in  his  mind,  and  that  was  the  pro- 
posed spire  and  the  clock.  As  a  result,  there  was  the 
spire  standing  at  the  end  of  the  shadowy  church  vivid 
and  distinct.  And  there  was  the  clock  with  its  two 
copper  hands  exactly  on  the  stroke  of  noon ! 

"Tell  me  what  you  see,  Little  Flower,"  said  Menzi 
in  a  hollow  voice. 

"I  see  what  Father  told  me  he  would  think  of,  a 
church  and  the  spire  of  the  church,  and  the  clock 
pointing  to  twelve." 

"Do  you  all  see  that,"  asked  Menzi,  "and  is  it  what 
the  Teacher  said  he  would  think  about  ?" 

"Yes,  Doctor,"  they  answered. 

"Then  look  once  more,  for  /  will  think  of  some- 
thing. I  will  think  of  that  church  falling.  Look 
once  more." 

They  looked,  and  behold  the  shadowy  fabric  began 
to  totter,  then  it  seemed  to  collapse,  and  last  of  all 
down  went  the  spire  and  vanished  in  the  smoke. 

"Have  you  seen  anything,  O  people  ?"  said  Menzi, 
"for  standing  behind  this  smoke  I  can  see  nothing. 


184  LITTLE  FLOWER 

Mark  that  it  is  thick,  since  through  it  I  am  invisible 
to  you." 

This  was  true,  since  they  could  only  perceive  the 
tips  of  his  outstretched  fingers  appearing  upon  each 
side  of  the  smoke-fan. 

"Yes,"  they  answered,  "we  have  seen  a  church  fall 
down  and  vanish." 

"That  was  my  thought,"  said  Menzi ;  "have  I  not 
told  you  that  was  the  thought  my  Spirit  gave  me  ?" 

"This  is  black  magic,  and  you  are  a  fiend!" 
shouted  Thomas,  and  was  silent. 

"Not  so,  Tombool,  though  it  is  true  that  I  have 
gifts  which  you  clever  White  people  do  not  under- 
stand," answered  Menzi. 

By  degrees  the  smoke  melted  away,  and  there  on 
the  ground  were  the  ten  or  twelve  crooked  pieces  of 
ebony  that  they  had  seen  consumed,  now  to  all  ap- 
pearance quite  untouched  by  flame.  There  too  on 
their  farther  side  lay  Menzi,  shining  with  perspira- 
tion, and  in  a  swoon  or  sleeping. 

"Come  away,"  said  Thomas  shortly,  and  they 
turned  to  go,  but  at  this  moment  something  hap- 
pened. 

Menzi,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  given  Tabitha  a 
kid  of  a  long-haired  variety  of  goat  peculiar  to  these 
parts.  This  little  creature  had  already  grown  at- 
tached to  its  mistress  and  walked  about  after  her,  in 
the  way  which  pet  goats  have.  It  had  followed  her 
that  morning,  but  not  being  interested  in  tricks  or 
magic,  engaged  itself  in  devouring  herbs  that  grew 
amongst  the  tumbled  stones  of  the  old  kraal. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  185 

Suddenly  Menzi  recovered  from  his  faint  or  seiz- 
ure and,  looking  up,  directed  his  attendants  to  return 
the  magical  ebony  rods  which  burned  without  being 
consumed  to  one  of  the  hide  bags  that  contained  his 
medicines.  The  assembly  began  to  break  up  amidst  a 
babel  of  excited  talk. 

Tabitha  looked  round  for  her  goat,  and  perceiving 
it  at  a  little  distance,  ran  to  fetch  it,  since  the  creat- 
ure, being  engaged  in  eating  something  to  its  taste, 
would  not  come  at  her  call.  She  seized  it  by  the 
neck  to  drag  it  away,  with  the  result  that  its  fore- 
feet, obstinately  set  upon  the  wall,  overturned  a 
large  stone,  revealing  a  great  puff  adder  that  was 
sleeping  there. 

The  reptile  thus  disturbed  instantly  struck  back- 
wards after  the  fashion  of  its  species,  so  that  its 
fangs,  just  missing  Tabitha's  hands,  sank  deep  into 
the  kid's  neck.  She  screamed  and  there  was  a  great 
disturbance.  A  native  ran  forward  and  pinned  down 
the  puff-adder  with  his  walking-stick  of  which  the 
top  was  forked.  The  kid  immediately  fell  on  to  its 
side,  and  lay  there  bleeding  and  bleating.  Tabitha 
began  to  weep,  calling  out,  "My  goat  is  killed,"  be- 
tween her  sobs. 

Menzi,.  distinguishing  her  voice  amid  the  tumult, 
asked  what  was  the  matter.  Someone  told  him, 
whereon  he  commanded  that  the  kid  should  be 
brought  to  him  and  the  snake  also.  This  was  done, 
Tabitha  following  her  dying  pet  with  her  mother,  for 
by  now  Thomas  had  departed,  taking  no  heed  of 
these  events,  which  perhaps  he  was  too  disturbed  to 
notice. 


i86  LITTLE  FLOWER 

"Save  my  goat!  Save  my  goat,  O  Menzi!"  im- 
plored Tabitha. 

The  old  witch-doctor  looked  at  the  animal,  also  at 
the  hideous  puff-adder  that  had  been  dragged  along 
the  ground  in  the  fork  of  the  stick. 

"It  will  be  hard,  Little  Flower,"  he  said,  "seeing 
that  the  goat  is  bitten  in  the  neck  and  this  snake  is 
very  poisonous.  Still  for  your  sake  I  will  try,  al- 
though I  fear  that  it  may  prove  but  a  waste  of  good 
medicine." 

Then  he  took  one  of  his  bags  and  from  it  selected 
a  certain  packet  wrapped  in  a  dried  leaf,  out  of  which 
he  shook  some  grey  powder.  Seizing  the  kid,  which 
seemed  to  be  almost  dead,  he  made  an  incision  in  its 
throat  over  the  wound,  and  into  it  rubbed  some  of 
this  powder.  Next  he  spat  upon  more  of  the  powder, 
thus  turning  it  to  a  paste,  and  opening  the  kid's 
mouth,  thrust  it  down  its  throat,  at  the  same  tinre 
mutering  an  invocation  or  spell. 

"Now  we  must  wait,"  he  said,  letting  the  kid  fall 
upon  the  ground,  where  it  lay  to  all  appearance  dead. 

"Is  that  powder  any  good?"  asked  Dorcas  rather 
aimlessly. 

"Yes,  it  is  very  good,  Lady;  a  medicine  of  power 
of  which  I  alone  have  the  secret,  a  magic  medicine. 
See,  I  will  show  you.  Except  the  immamba,  the 
ring-snake  that  puffs  out  its  head,  this  one  is  the 
most  deadly  in  our  country.  Yet  I  do  not  fear  it. 
Look!" 

Leaning  forward,  he  seized  the  puff-adder,  and 
"drawing  it  from  beneath  the  fork,  suffered  it  to  strike 
him  upon  the  breast,  after  which  he  deliberately  killed 


LITTLE  FLOWER  187 

it  with  a  stone.  Then  he  took  some  of  the  grey 
powder  and  rubbed  it  into  the  punctures;  also  put 
more  of  it  into  his  mouth,  which  he  swallowed. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Dorcas,  "he  will  die,"  and  some 
of  the  Christian  Kaffirs  echoed  her  remark. 

But  Menzi  did  not  die  at  all.  On  the  contrary, 
after  shivering  a  few  times  he  was  quite  himself,  and, 
indeed,  seemed  rather  brighter  than  before,  like  3 
jaded  business  man  who  has  drunk  a  cocktail. 

"No,  Wife  of  Tombool,"  he  said,  "I  shall  not  die; 
every  year  I  doctor  myself  with  this  magic  medicine 
that  is  called  Dawa,  after  which  all  the  snakes  in 
Sisa-Land — remember  that  they  are  many,  Little 
Flower — may  bite  me  if  they  like." 

"Is  it  your  magic  or  is  it  the  medicine  that  protects 
you?"  asked  Dorcas. 

"Both,  Lady.  The.  medicine  Dawa  is  of  no  use 
without  the  magic  words,  and  the  magic  words  are  of 
no  use  without  the  medicine.  Therefore  alone  in  all 
the  land  I  can  cure  snake  bites,  who  have  both  medi- 
cine and  magic.  Look  at  your  goat,  Little  Flower. 
Look  at  your  goat!" 

Tabitha  looked,  as  did  everyone  else.  The  kid  was 
rising  to  its  feet.  It  rose,  it  baa'd  and  presently 
began  to  frisk  about  round  its  mistress,  like  Menzi 
apparently  rather  brighter  than  before. 


i88  LITTLE  FLOWER 


A  YEAR  had  gone  by,  during  which  time,  by  the  most 
heroic  exertions,  Thomas  Bull  had  at  length  suc- 
ceeded in  rebuilding  the  church.  There  it  stood,  a 
very  nice  mission-church,  constructed  of  sun-dried 
bricks  neatly  plastered  over,  cool  and  spacious  within, 
for  the  thatched  roof  was  lofty,  beautifully  furnished 
(the  font  and  the  pulpit  had  been  imported  from 
England),  and  finished  off  with  the  spire  and  clock 
of  his  dreams,  the  latter  also  imported  from  Eng- 
land and  especially  adjusted  for  a  hot  climate. 

Moreover,  there  was  a  sweet  and  loud-throated  bell 
upon  which  the  clock  struck,  with  space  allowed  for 
the  addition  of  others  that  must  wait  till  Thomas 
could  make  up  his  mind  to  approach  Dorcas  as  to  the 
provision  of  the  necessary  funds.  Yes,  the  church 
was  finished,  and  the  Bishop  of  those  parts  had  made 
a  special  journey  to  consecrate  it  at  the  hottest  season 
of  the  year,  and  as  a  reward  for  his  energy  had  con- 
tracted fever  and  nearly  been  washed  away  in  a 
flooded  river. 

Only  one  thing  was  lacking,  a  sufficient  congrega- 
tion to  fill  this  fine  church,  which  secretly  the  Bishop, 
who  was  a  sensible  man,  thought  would  have  been  of 
greater  value  had  it  been  erected  in  any  of  several 
other  localities  that  he  could  have  suggested.  For 
alas !  the  Christian  community  of  Sisa-Land  did  not 
increase.  Occasionally  Thomas  succeeded  in  con- 
verting one  of  Menzi's  followers,  and  occasionally 


LITTLE  FLOWER  189 

Menzi  snatched  a  lamb  from  the  flock  of  Thomas, 
with  the  result  that  the  scales  remained  even,  neither 
going  up  nor  down. 

The  truth  was,  of  course,  that  the  matter  was 
chiefly  one  of  race;  those  of  the  Sisas  in  whom  the 
Basuto  blood  preponderated  became  Christian,  while 
those  who  were  of  the  stubborn  Zulu  stock,  strength- 
ened and  inspired  by  their  prophet  Menzi,  remained 
unblushingly  heathen. 

Still  Thomas  did  not  despair.  One  day,  he  told 
himself,  there  would  be  a  great  change,  a  veritable 
landslide,  and  he  would  see  that  church  rilled  with 
every  Zulu  in  the  district.  Needless  to  say,  he  wished 
him  no  ill,  but  Menzi  was  an  old  man,  and  before 
long  it  might  please  Providence  to  gather  that  ac- 
cursed wizard  to  his  fathers.  For  that  he  was  a 
wizard  of  some  sort  Thomas  no  longer  doubted,  a 
person  directly  descended  from  the  Witch  of  Endor, 
or  from  some  others  of  her  company  who  were  men- 
tioned in  the  Bible.  There  was  ample  authority  for 
wizards,  and  if  they  existed  then  why  should  they 
not  continue  to  do  so  ?  Since  he  could  not  explain  it, 
Thomas  swallowed  the  magic,  much  as  in  his  boy- 
hood he  used  to  swallow  the  pills. 

Yes,  if  only  Menzi  were  removed  by  the  will  of 
Heaven,  which  really,  thought  Thomas,  must  be  out- 
raged by  such  proceedings,  his  opportunity  would 
come,  and  "Menzi's  herd/'  as  the  heathens  were 
called  in  Sisa-Land,  would  be  added  to  his  own. 
The  Bishop,  it  is  true,  was  not  equally  sanguine,  but 
said  nothing  to  discourage  zeal  so  laudable  and  so 
uncommon. 


190  LITTLE  FLOWER 

It  was  while  his  Lordship  was  recovering  from  the 
sharp  bout  of  fever  which  he  had  developed  in  a  new 
and  mosquito-haunted  hut  with  a  damp  floor  that  had 
been  especially  erected  for  his  accommodation,  that 
at  last  the  question  of  the  re-building  of  the  mission- 
house  came  to  a  head,  which  it  could  not  do  while  all 
the  available  local  labour,  to  say  nothing  of 
some  hired  from  afar,  was  employed  upon  the 
church. 

Thomas,  it  is  true,  wished  to  postpone  it  further, 
pointing  out  that  a  school  was  most  necessary,  and 
that  after  all  they  had  grown  quite  accustomed  to  the 
huts  and  were  fairly  comfortable  in  them. 

On  this  point,  however,  Dorcas  was  firm ;  indeed, 
it  would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that,  having  already 
been  disappointed  once,  she  struck  with  all  the  vigour 
of  a  trade-unionist.  She  explained  that  the  situation 
of  the  huts  on  the  brink  of  the  river  was  low  and  most 
unhealthy,  and  that  in  them  she  was  becoming  a 
victim  to  recurrent  attacks  of  fever.  He,  Thomas, 
might  be  fever-proof,  as  indeed  she  thought  he  was. 
It  was  true  also  that  Tabitha  had  been  extraordi- 
narily well  and  grown  much  ever  since  she  came  to 
Sisa-Land,  which  puzzled  her,  inasmuch  as  the  place 
was  notoriously  unhealthy  for  children,  even  if  they 
were  of  native  blood.  Indeed,  in  her  agitation  she 
added  an  unwise  remark  to  the  effect  that  she  could 
only  explain  their  daughter's  peculiar  health  by  sup- 
posing that  Menzi  had  laid  a  "good  charm"  upon 
her,  as  all  the  natives  believed,  and  he  announced 
publicly  that  he  had  done. 

This  made  Thomas  very  angry,  admittedly  not 


LITTLE  FLOWER  191 

without  cause.  Forgetting  his  conversion  to  a  belief 
in  the  reality  of  Menzi's  magic,  he  talked  in  a  loud 
voice  about  the  disgrace  of  being  infected  with  vile, 
heathen  superstitions,  such  as  he  had  never  thought  to 
hear  uttered  by  his  wife's  Christian  lips.  Dorcas, 
however,  stuck  to  her  point,  and  enforced  it  by  a 
domestic  example,  adding  that  the  creatures  which 
in  polite  society  are  called  "bed-pests,"  that  haunted 
the  straw  of  the  huts,  tormented  her  while  Tabitha 
never  had  so  much  as  a  single  bite. 

The  end  of  it  was  that  the  matter  of  mission-house 
versits  huts  was  referred  to  the  Bishop  for  his  opin- 
ion. As  the  teeth  of  his  Lordship  were  chattering 
with  ague  resulting,  he  knew  full  well,  from  the 
fever  he  had  contracted  in  the  said  huts,  Dorcas 
found  in  him  a  most  valuable  ally.  He  agreed  that  a 
mission-house  ought  to  be  built  before  the  school  or 
anything  else,  and  suggested  that  it  should  be  placed 
in  a  higher  and  better  situation,  above  the  mists  that 
rose  from  the  river  and  the  height  to  which  mosqui- 
toes fly. 

Bowing  to  the  judgment  of  his  superior,  which 
really  he  heard  with  gratitude,  although  in  his  zeal 
and  unselfishness  he  would  have  postponed  his  own 
comfort  and  that  of  his  family  till  other  duties  had 
been  fulfilled,  Thomas  replied  that  he  only  knew  one 
such  place  which  would  be  near  enough  to  the  Chief's 
town.  It  was  on  the  koppie  itself,  about  fifty  feet 
above  the  level  of  and  overhanging  the  river,  where 
he  had  noted  there  was  always  a  breeze,  even  on  the 
hottest  day,  since  the  conformation  of  this  hill  seemed 
to  induce  an  unceasing  draught  of  air.  He  added 


192  LITTLE  FLOWER 

that  if  his  Lordship  were  well  enough,  they  might  go 
to  look  at  the  site. 

So  they  went,  all  of  them.  Ascending  a  sloping, 
ancient  path  that  was  never  precipitous,  they  came  to 
the  place,  a  flat  tableland  that  perhaps  measured  an 
acre  and  a  half,  which  by  some  freak  of  nature  had 
been  scooped  out  of  the  side  of  the  koppie,  and  was 
backed  by  a  precipitous  cliff  in  which  were  caves. 
The  front  part  of  this  plateau,  that  which  approached 
to  and  overhung  the  river,  was  of  virgin  rock,  but 
the  acre  or  so  behind  was  filled  with  very  rich  soil 
that  in  the  course  of  centuries  had  been  washed  down 
from  the  sides  of  the  koppie,  or  resulted  from  the  de- 
composition of  its  material. 

"The  very  place,"  said  the  Bishop.  "The  access  is 
easy.  The  house  would  stand  here — no  need  to  dig 
deep  foundations  in  this  stone,  and  behind,  when 
those  trees  have  been  cleared  away,  you  could  have 
a  beautiful  and  fertile  garden  where  anything  will 
grow.  Also,  look,  there  is  a  stream  of  pure  water 
running  from  some  spring  above.  It  is  an  ideal  site 
for  a  house,  not  more  than  three  minutes'  walk  from 
the  church  below,  the  best  I  should  say  in  the  whole 
valley.  And  then,  consider  the  view." 

Everyone  agreed,  and  they  were  leaving  the  place 
in  high  spirits,  Dorcas,  who  had  household  matters 
to  attend,  having  already  departed,  when  whom 
should  they  encounter  but  Menzi  seated  on  a  stone 
just  where  the  path  began  to  descend.  Thomas 
would  have  passed  him  without  notice  as  one  witft 
whom  he  was  not  on  speaking  terms,  but  the  Bishop, 
having  been  informed  by  Tabitha  who  he  was,  was 


LITTLE  FLOWER  193 

moved  by  curiosity  to  stop  and  interchange  some 
words  with  him,  as  knowing  his  tongue  perfectly,  he 
could  do. 

"Sakubona"  (that  is,  "good  day"),  he  said  po- 
litely. 

Menzi  rose  and  saluted  with  his  habitual  courtesy, 
first  the  Bishop,  then  the  others,  as  usual  reserving 
his  sweetest  smile  for  Tabitha. 

"Great  Priest,"  he  said  at  once,  "I  understand  that 
the  Teacher  Tombool  intends  to  build  his  house  upon 
this  place." 

The  Bishop  wondered  how  on  earth  the  man  knew 
that,  since  the  matter  had  only  just  been  decided  by 
people  talking  in  English,  but  answered  that  perhaps 
he  might  do  so. 

"Great  Priest,"  went  on  Menzi  in  an  earnest  voice, 
"I  pray  you  to  forbid  the  Teacher  Tombool  from 
doing  anything  of  the  sort." 

"Why,  friend?"  asked  the  Bishop. 

"Because,  Great  Priest,  this  place  is  haunted  by  the 
spirits  of  the  dead,  and  those  who  live  here  will  be 
haunted  also.  Hearken.  I  myself  when  I  was  young 
have  seen  evil-doers  brought  from  Zululand  and 
hurled  from  that  rock,  blinded  and  broken-armed,  by 
order  of  the  King.  I  say  that  scores  have  been 
thrown  thence  to  be  devoured  by  the  crocodiles  in  the 
pool  below.  Will  such  a  sight  as  this  be  pleasant  for 
white  eyes  to  look  upon,  and  will  such  cries  as  those 
of  the  evil-doers  who  have  'gone  down*  be  nice  for 
white  ears  to  hear  in  the  silence  of  the  night  ?" 

"But,  my  good  man,"  said  the  Bishop,  "what  you 
say  is  nonsense.  These  poor  creatures  are  dead, 


194  LITTLE  FLOWER 

'gone  down'  as  you  say,  and  do  not  return.  We 
Christians  have  no  belief  in  ghosts,  or  if  they  exist 
we  are  protected  from  them/' 

"None  at  all,"  interposed  Thomas  boldly  and 
speaking  in  Zulu.  "This  man,  my  Lord,  is  at  his  old 
tricks.  For  reasons  of  his  own  he  is  trying  to 
frighten  us ;  for  my  part  I  will  not  be  frightened  by 
a  native  witch-doctor  and  his  rubbish,  even  if  he 
does  deal  with  Satan.  With  your  permission  I  shall 
certainly  build  the  mission-house  here." 

"Quite  right,  of  course,  quite  right,"  said  the 
Bishop,  though  within  himself  he  reflected  that  evi- 
dently the  associations  of  the  spot  were  disagreeable, 
and  that  were  he  personally  concerned,  perhaps 
he  should  be  inclined  to  consider  an  alterna- 
tive site.  However,  it  was  a  matter  for  Mr.  Bull 
to  decide. 

"I  hear  that  Tombool  will  not  be  turned  from  his 
purpose.  I  hear  that  he  will  still  build  his  house 
upon  this  rock.  So  be  it.  Let  him  do  so  and  see. 
But  this  I  say,  that  Imba,  the  Floweret,  shall  not  be 
haunted  by  the  Isitunzi  (the  ghosts  of  the  dead)  who 
wail  in  the  night,"  said  Menzi. 

He  advanced  to  Tabitha,  and  holding  his  hands 
over  her  cried  out : 

"Sweet  eyes,  be  blind  to  the  Isitunzi.  Little  ears, 
do  not  hear  their  groans.  Spirits,  build  a  garden 
fence  about  this  flower  and  keep  her  safe  from  all 
night-prowling  evil  things.  Imba,  little  Flower, 
sleep  softly  while  others  lie  awake  and  tremble." 

Then  he  turned  and  departed  swiftly. 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  Bishop.     "A  strange  man, 


LITTLE  FLOWER  195 

a  very  strange  man.  I  don't  know  quite  what  to 
make  of  him." 

"I  do,"  answered  Thomas,  "he  is  a  black-hearted 
villain  who  is  in  league  with  the  devil." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say — I  mean  as  to  his  being  a  villain, 
that  is  according  to  our  standards — but  does  your 
daughter — a  clever  and  most  attractive  little  girl,  by 
the  way — think  so  ?  She  seemed  to  look  on  him  with 
affection — one  learns  to  read  children's  eyes,  you 
know.  A  very  strange  man,  I  repeat.  If  we  could 
see  all  his  heart  we  should  know  lots  of  things  and 
understand  more  about  these  people  than  we  do  at 
present.  Has  it  ever  struck  you,  Mr.  Bull,  how  little 
we  white  people  do  understand  of  the  black  man's 
soul  ?  Perhaps  a  child  can  see  farther  into  it  than  we 
can.  What  is  the  saying — 'a  little  child  shall  lead 
them,'  is  it  not?  Perhaps  we  do  not  make  enough 
allowances.  'Faith,  Hope  and  Charity,  these  three, 
but  the  greatest  of  these  is  charity' — or  love,  which 
is  the  same  thing.  However,  of  course  you  are  quite 
right  not  to  have  been  frightened  by  his  silly  talk 
about  the  Isitunsi,  it  would  never  do  to  show  fear  or 
hesitation.  Still,  I  am  glad  that  Mrs.  Bull  did  not 
hear  it ;  you  may  have  noticed  that  she  had  gone  on 
ahead,  and  if  I  were  you  I  should  not  repeat  it  to 
her,  since  ladies  are  so  nervous.  Tabitha,  my  dear, 
don't  tell  your  mother  anything  of  all  this." 

"No,  Bishop,"  answered  Tabitha,  "I  never  tell  her 
all  the  queer  things  that  Menzi  says  to  me  when  I 
meet  him,  or  at  least  not  many  of  them." 

"I  wish  I  had  asked  him  if  he  had  a  cure  for  your 
local  fever,"  said  the  Bishop  with  a  laugh,  "for 


196  LITTLE  FLOWER 

against  it,  although  I  have  taken  so  much  that  my 
ears  buzz,  quinine  cannot  prevail." 

"He  has  given  me  one  in  a  gourd,  Bishop,"  replied 
Tabitha  confidentially,  "but  I  have  never  taken  any, 
because  you  see  I  have  had  no  fever,  and  I  haven't 
told  mother,  for  if  I  did  she  would  tell  father" 
(Thomas  had  stridden  ahead,  and  was  out  of  hear- 
ing), "and  he  might  be  angry  because  he  doesn't  like 
Menzi,  though  I  do.  Will  you  have  some,  Bishop? 
It  is  well  corked  up  with  clay,  and  Menzi  said  it 
would  keep  for  years." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  answered  the  Bishop,  "I  don't 
quite  know.  There  may  be  all  sorts  of  queer  things 
in  Mr.  Menzi's  medicine.  Still,  he  told  you  to  drink 
it  if  necessary,  and  I  am  absolutely  certain  that  he 
does  not  wish  to  poison  you.  So  perhaps  I  might 
have  a  try,  for  really  I  feel  uncommonly  ill." 

So  later  on,  with  much  secrecy,  the  gourd  was  pn> 
duced,  and  the  Bishop  had  "a  try."  By  some  strange 
coincidence  he  felt  so  much  better  after  it  that  he 
begged  for  the  rest  of  the  stuff  to  comfort  him  on  his 
homeward  journey,  which  ultimately  he  accomplished 
in  the  best  of  health. 

That  most  admirable  and  wide-minded  prelate  de- 
parted, and  so  far  as  history  records  was  no  more 
seen  in  Sisa-Land.  But  Thomas  remained,  and  set 
about  the  building  of  the  house  with  his  usual  vigour. 
Upon  the  Death  Rock,  as  it  was  called,  in  course  of 
time  he  erected  an  excellent  and  most  serviceable 
'dwelling,  not  too  large  but  large  enough,  having 
every  comfort  and  convenience  that  his  local  experi- 


LITTLE  FLOWER  197 

ence  could  suggest  and  money  could  supply,  since  in 
this  matter  the  cheque-book  of  the  suffering  Dorcas 
was  entirely  at  his  service. 

At  length  the  house  was  finished,  and  with  much 
rejoicing  the  Bull  family,  deserting  their  squalid 
huts,  moved  into  it  at  the  commencement  of  the  hot 
season.  After  the  first  agitations  of  the  change  and 
of  the  arrangement  of  the  furniture  newly-arrived  by 
wagon,  they  settled  down  very  comfortably,  directing 
all  their  energies  towards  the  development  of  the 
garden,  which  had  already  been  brought  into  some 
rough  order  during  the  building  of  the  house. 

One  difficulty,  however,  arose  at  once.  For  some 
mysterious  reason  they  found  that  not  a  single  native 
servant  would  sleep  in  the  place,  no,  not  even  Tab- 
itah's  personal  attendant,  who  adored  her.  Every 
soul  of  them  suddenly  developed  a  sick  mother  or 
other  relative  who  would  instantly  expire  if  deprived 
of  the  comfort  of  their  society  after  dark.  Or  else 
they  themselves  became  ailing  at  that  hour,  saying 
they  could  not  sleep  upon  a  cliff  like  a  rock-rabbit. 

At  any  rate,  for  one  cause  or  another  off  they  went 
the  very  moment  that  the  sun  vanished  behind  the 
western  hills,  nor  did  they  re-appear  until  it  was  well 
up  above  those  that  faced  towards  the  east. 

At  least  this  happened  for  one  night.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day,  however,  a  pleasant-looking  woman 
named  Ivana,  whom  they  knew  to  be  of  good  repute, 
though  of  doubtful  religion,  as  sometimes  she  came 
to  church  and  sometimes  she  did  not,  appeared  and 
offered  her  services  as  "night-dog" — that  is  what  she 
called  it— to  Tabitha,  saying  that  she  did  not  mind 


198  LITTLE  FLOWER 

sleeping  on  a  height.  Since  it  was  inconvenient  to 
have  no  one  about  the  place  from  dark  to  dawn,  and 
Dorcas  did  not  approve  of  Tabitha  being  left  to  sleep 
alone,  the  woman,  whose  character  was  guaranteed 
by  the  Chief  Kosa  and  the  elders  of  the  church,  was 
taken  on  at  an  indefinite  wage.  To  the  matter  of 
pecuniary  reward,  indeed,  she  seemed  to  be  entirely 
indifferent. 

For  the  rest  she  rolled  herself  in  blankets,  native 
fashion,  and  slept  across  Tabitha's  door,  keeping  so 
good  a  watch  that  once  when  her  father  wished  to 
enter  the  room  to  fetch  something  after  the  child  was 
asleep,  she  would  not  allow  even  him  to  do  so.  When 
he  tried  to  force  a  way  past  her,  suddenly  Ivana  be- 
came so  threatening  that  he  thought  she  was  about 
to  spring  at  him.  After  this  he  wanted  to  dismiss 
her,  but  Dorcas  said  it  only  showed  that  she  was 
faithful,  and  that  she  had  better  be  left  where 
she  was,  especially  as  there  was  no  one  to  take  her 
place. 

So  things  went  on  till  the  day  of  full  moon.  On 
that  night  Ivana  appeared  to  be  much  agitated,  and 
insisted  that  Tabitha  should  go  to  bed  earlier  than 
was  usual.  Also  after  she  was  asleep  Dorcas  noticed 
that  Ivana  walked  continually  to  and  fro  in  front  of 
the  door  of  the  child's  room  and  up  and  down  the 
veranda  on  to  which  its  windows  opened,  droning 
some  strange  song  and  waving  a  wand. 

However,  at  the  appointed  hour,  having  said  their 
prayers,  Dorcas  and  her  husband  went  to  bed. 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  strange  about  this 
place,"  remarked  Dorcas.  "It  is  so  very  odd  that  no 


LITTLE  FLOWER  199 

native  will  stop  here  at  night  except  that  half-wild 
Ivana." 

"Oh!  I  don't  know/'  replied  Thomas  with  a 
yawn,  real  or  feigned.  "These  people  get  all  sorts  of 
ideas  into  their  silly  heads.  Do  stop  twisting  about 
and  go  to  sleep." 

At  last  Dorcas  did  go  to  sleep,  only  to  wake  up 
again  suddenly  and  with  great  completeness  just  as 
the  church  clock  below  struck  three,  the  sound  of 
which  she  supposed  must  have  roused  her.  The  bril- 
liant moonlight  flooded  the  room,  and  as  for  some 
reason  she  felt  creepy  and  disturbed,  Dorcas  tried  to 
occupy  her  mind  by  reflecting  how  comfortable  it 
looked  with  its  new,  imported  furnishings,  very  dif- 
ferent from  that  horrible  hut  in  which  they  had  lived 
so  long. 

Then  her  thoughts  drifted  to  more  general  matters. 
She  was  heartily  tired  of  Sisa-Land,  and  wished 
earnestly  that  her  husband  could  get  a  change  of 
station,  which  the  Bishop  had  hinted  to  her  would 
not  be  impossible — somewhere  nearer  to  civilisation. 
Alas!  he  was  so  obstinate  that  she  feared  nothing 
would  move  him:,  at  any  rate  until  he  had  converted 
"Menzi's  herd,"  who  were  also  obstinate,  and  re- 
mained as  heathen  as  ever.  Indeed  why,  with  their 
ample  means,  should  they  be  condemned  to  perpetual 
exile  in  these  barbarous  places?  Was  there  not 
plenty  of  work  to  be  done  at  home,  where  they  might 
make  friends  and  live  decently? 

Putting  herself  and  her  own  wishes  aside,  this  ex- 
istence was  not  fair  to  Tabitha,  who,  as  she  saw, 
watching  her  with  a  mother's  eye,  was  becoming  ira- 


200  LITTLE  FLOWER 

pregnated  with  the  native  atmosphere.  She  who 
ought  to  be  at  a  Christian  school  now  talked  more 
Zulu  than  she  did  English,  and  was  beginning  to 
look  at  things  from  the  Zulu  point  of  view  and  to  use 
their  idioms  and  metaphors  even  when  speaking  her 
own  tongue.  She  had  become  a  kind  of  little  chief- 
tainess  among  these  folk,  also,  Christian  and  heathen 
alike.  Indeed,  now  most  of  them  spoke  of  her  as  the 
Maiden  Inkosikas\>  or  Chieftainess,  and  accepted  her 
slightest  wish  or  order  as  law,  which  was  by  no 
means  the  case  where  Dorcas  herself  and  even 
Thomas  were  concerned. 

In  fact,  once  or  twice  they  had  been  driven  to  make 
a  request  through  the  child,  notably  upon  an  import- 
ant occasion  that  had  to  do  with  the  transport-riding 
of  their  furniture,  to  avoid  its  being  left  for  a  couple 
of  months  on  the  farther  side  of  a  flooded  river.  The 
details  do  not  matter,  but  what  happened  was  that 
when  Tabitha  intervened  that;  which  had  been  de- 
clared to  be  impossible  proved  possible,  and  the  fur- 
niture arrived  with  wonderful  celerity.  Moreover, 
Tabitha  made  no  request;  as  Dorcas  knew,  though 
she  hid  it  from  Thomas,  she  sent  for  the  headmen, 
and  when  they  were  seated  on  the  ground  before  her 
after  their  fashion,  Menzi  among  them,  issued  an 
order,  saying: 

"What !  Are  my  parents  and  I  to  live  like  dogs 
without  a  kennel  or  cattle  that  lack  of  winter  kraal, 
because  you  are  idle  ?  Inspan  the  wagons  and  fetch 
the  things  or  I  shall  be  angry.  Hamba — Go!" 

Thereon  they  rose  and  went  without  argument, 
only  lifting  their  right  hands  above  their  heads 


LITTLE  FLOWER  201 

and  murmuring,  Ikosikaas!  Umame!  ( Chief tainess! 
Mother!)  we  hear  you."  Yes,  they  called  Tabitha 
"Mother!" 

It  was  all  very  wrong,  thought  Dorcas,  but  she 
supposed,  being  a  pious  little  person,  that  she  must 
bear  her  burden  and  trust  to  Providence  to  free  her 
from  it,  and  she  closed  her  eyes  to  wipe  away  a  tear. 

When  Dorcas  opened  them  again  something  very 
strange  seemed  to  have  happened.  She  felt  wide 
awake,  and  yet  knew  that  she  must  be  dreaming 
because  the  room  had  disappeared.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  sight  except  the  bare  rock  upon  which  the 
house  stood.  For  instance,  she  could  see  the  gorge 
behind  as  it  used  to  be  before  they  made  it  into  a 
garden,  for  she  recognised  some  of  the  very  trees  that 
they  had  cut  down.  Moreover,  from  one  of  the  caves 
at  the  end  of  it  issued  a  procession,  a  horrible  pro- 
cession of  fierce-looking,  savage  warriors,  with 
spears  and  knobkerries,  who  between  them  half 
dragged,  half  carried  a  young  woman  and  an  elderly 
man. 

They  advanced.  They  passed  within  a  few  feet  of 
her,  and  observing  the  condition  of  the  woman  and  the 
man,  she  saw  that  these  must  be  led  because  for  a 
certain  reason  they  could  not  see  where  to  go, — oh  \ 
never  mind  what  she  saw. 

The  procession  reached  the  edge  of  the  rock  where 
the  railing  was,  only  now  the  railing  had  gone  like 
the  house.  Then  for  the  first  time  Dorcas  heard,  for 
hitherto  all  had  seemed  to  happen  in  silence. 

"Die,  Umtakati!    Die,  you  wizard,  as  the  King 


202  LITTLE  FLOWER 

commands,  and  feed  the  river-dwellers,"  said  a  deep 
voice. 

There  followed  a  strugle,  a  horrible  twisting  of 
shapes,  and  the  elderly  man  vanished  over  the  cliff, 
while  a  moment  later  from  below  came  the  noise  of 
a  great  splash. 

Next  the  girl  was  haled  forward,  and  the  words  of 
doom  were  repeated.  She  seemed  to  break  from  her 
murderers  and  stagger  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
crying  out: 

"O  Father,  I  come!" 

Then,  with  one  blood-curdling  shriek,  she  vanished 
also,  and  again  there  followed  the  sound  of  a  great 
splash  that  slowly  echoed  itself  to  silence. 

All  had  passed  away,  leaving  Dorcas  paralysed 
with  terror,  and  wet  with  its  dew,  so  that  her  night- 
gear  clung  to  her  body.  The  room  was  just  as  it  had 
been,  filled  with  the  soft  moonlight  and  looking  very 
comfortable. 

"Thomas !"  gasped  his  wife,  "wake  up." 

"I  am  awake,"  he  answered  in  his  deep  voice, 
which  shook  a  little.  "I  have  had  a  bad  dream." 

"What  did  you  dream?  Did  you  see  two  people 
thrown  from  the  cliff?" 

"Something  of  that  sort." 

"Oh!  Thomas,  Thomas,  I  have  been  in  hell. 
This  place  is  haunted.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  dreams. 
Tabitha  will  have  seen  and  heard  too.  She  will  be 
driven  mad.  Come  to  her." 

"I  think  not,"  answered  Thomas. 

Still  he  came. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  203 

At  the  door  of  Tabitha's  room  they  found  the 
woman  Ivana,  wide-eyed,  solemn,  silent. 

"Have  you  seen  or  heard  anything,  Ivana  ?"  asked 
Thomas. 

"Yes,  Teacher,"  she  answered,  "I  have  seen  what 
I  expected  to  see  and  heard  what  I  expected  to  hear 
on  this  night  of  full  moon,  but  I  am  guarded  and  do 
not  fear." 

"The  child !    The  child !"  said  Dorcas. 

"The  Inkosikazi  Imba  sleeps.     Disturb  her  not" 

Taking  no  heed,  they  thrust  past  her  into  the  room. 
There  on  her  little  white  bed  lay  Tabitha  fast  asleep, 
and  looking  like  an  angel  in  her  sleep,  for  a  sweet 
smile  played  about  her  mouth,  and  while  they 
watched  she  laughed  in  her  dreams.  Then  they 
looked  at  each  other  and  went  back  to  their  own 
chamber  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  night  as  may  be 
imagined. 

Next  morning  when  they  emerged,  very  shaken 
and  upset,  the  first  person  they  met  was  Ivana,  who 
was  waiting  for  them  with  their  coffee. 

"I  have  a  message  for  you,  Teacher  and  Lady. 
Never  mind  who  sends  it,  I  have  a  message  for  you 
to  which  you  will  do  well  to  give  heed.  Sleep  no 
more  in  this  house  on  the  night  of  full  moon,  though 
all  other  nights  will  be  good  for  you.  Only  the  little 
Chieftainess  Imba  ought  to  sleep  in  this  house  on  the 
night  of  full  moon." 

So  indeed  it  proved  to  be.  No  suburban  villa 
could  have  been  more  commonplace  and  less  dis- 
turbed than  was  their  dwelling  for  twenty-seven 
nights  of  every  month,  but  on  the  twenty-eighth  they 


204  LITTLE  FLOWER 

found  a  change  of  air  desirable.  Once  it  is  true  the 
stalwart  Thomas,  like  Ajax,  defied  the  lightning,  or 
rather  other  things  that  come  from  above — or  from 
below.  But  before  morning  he  appeared  at  the  hut 
beneath  the  koppie  announcing  that  he  had  come  to 
see  how  they  were  getting  on,  and  shaking  as  though 
he  had  a  bout  of  fever. 

Dorcas  asked  him  no  questions  (afterwards  she 
gathered  that  he  had  been  favoured  with  quite  a  new 
and  very  varied  midnight  programme)  ;  but  Tabitha 
smiled  in  her  slow  way.  For  Tabitha  knew  all  about 
this  business  as  she  knew  everything  that  passed  in 
Sisa-Land.  Moreover,  she  laughed  at  them  a  little, 
and  said  that  she  was  not  afraid  to  sleep  in  the  mis- 
sion-house on  the  night  of  full  moon. 

What  is  more,  she  did  so,  which  was  naughty  of 
her,  for  on  one  such  occasion  she  slipped  back  to  the 
house  when  her  parents  were  asleep,  followed  only 
by  her  "night-dog,"  the  watchful  Ivana,  and  returned 
at  dawn  just  as  they  had  discovered  that  she  was 
missing,  singing  and  laughing  and  jumping  from 
stone  to  stone  with  the  agility  of  her  own  pet  goat. 

"I  slept  beautifully,"  she  cried,  "and  dreamed  I 
was  in  heaven  all  night/' 

Thomas  was  furious  and  rated  her  till  she  wept. 
Then  suddenly  Ivana  became  furious  too  and  rated 
him. 

Should  he  be  wrath  with  the  Little  Chieftainess 
Imba,  she  asked  him,  because  the  Isitunzis,  the  spirits 
of  the  dead,  loved  her  as  did  everything  else  ?  Did 
they  not  understand  that  the  Floweret  was  unlike 
them,  one  adored  of  dead  and  living,  one  to  be  cher- 


LITTLE  FLOWER  205 

ished  even  in  her  dreams,  one  whom  "Heaven 
Above,"  together  with  those  who  had  "gone  below," 
built  round  with  a  wall  of  spells? — and  more  of 
such  talk,  which  Thomas  thought  so  horrible  and 
blasphemous  that  he  fled  before  its  torrent. 

But  when  he  came  back  calmer  he  said  no  more  to 
Tabitha  about  her  escapade. 

It  was  a  long  while  afterwards,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  great  drought,  that  another  terrible  thing  hap- 
pened. On  a  certain  calm  and  beautiful  day  Tabitha, 
who  still  grew  and  flourished,  had  taken  some  of 
the  Christian  children  to  a  spot  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  koppie,  where  stood  an  old  fortification  originally 
built  for  purposes  of  defence.  Here,  among  the  an- 
cient walls,  with  the  assistance  of  the  natives,  she 
had  made  a  kind  of  summer-house  as  children  love  to 
do,  and  in  this  house,  like  some  learned  eastern  pun- 
dit in  a  cell,  a  very  pretty  pundit  crowned  with  a 
wreath  of  flowers,  she  sat  upon  the  ground  and  in- 
structed the  infant  mind  of  Sisa-Land. 

She  was  supposed  to  be  telling  them  Bible  stories 
to  prepare  them  for  their  Sunday  School  examina- 
tion, which,  indeed,  she  did  with  embellishments  and 
in  their  own  poetic  and  metaphorical  fashion.  The 
particular  tale  upon  which  she  was  engaged,  by  a 
strange  coincidence,  was  that  from  the  Acts  which 
narrates  how  St.  Paul  was  bitten  by  a  viper  upon  the 
Island  of  Melita,  and  how  he  shook  it  off  into  the 
fire  and  took  no  hurt. 

"He  must  have  been  like  Menzi,"  said  Ivana,  who 
was  present,  whereon  Tabitha's  other  attendant,  who 


206  LITTLE  FLOWER 

was  also  with  her  as  it  was  daytime,  started  an  argu- 
ment, for  being  a  Christian  she  was  no  friend  to 
Menzi,  whom  she  called  a  "dirty  old  witch-doctor." 

Tabitha,  who  was  used  to  these  disputations,  lis- 
tened smiling,  and  while  she  listened  amused  herself 
by  trying  to  thrust  a  stone  into  a  hole  in  the  side  of 
her  summer-house,  which  was  formed  by  one  of  the 
original  walls  of  the  old  kraal. 

Presently  she  uttered  a  scream,  and  snatched  her 
arm  out  of  the  hole.  To  it,  or  rather  to  her  hand, 
was  hanging  a  great  hooded  snake  of  the  cobra  vari- 
ety such  as  the  Boers  call  ringhals.  She  shook  it  off, 
and  the  reptile,  after  sitting  up,  spitting,  hissing  and 
expanding  its  hood,  glided  back  into  the  wall.  Ta- 
bitha sat  still,  staring  at  her  lacerated  finger,  which 
Ivana  seized  and  sucked. 

Then,  bidding  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  children  to 
take  her  place  and  continue  sucking,  Ivana  ran  to  a 
high  rock  a  few  yards  away  which  overlooked  Men- 
zi's  kraal,  that  lay  upon  the  plain  at  a  distance  of 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  called  out  in  the  low, 
ringing  voice  that  Kaffirs  can  command,  which  car- 
ries to  an  enormous  distance. 

"Awake,  O  Menzi!  Come,  O  Doctor,  and  bring 
with  you  your  Dawa.  The  little  Chieftainess  is  bit- 
ten in  the  finger  by  a  hooded  snake.  The  Floweret 
withers !  Imba  dies !" 

Almost  instantly  there  was  a  disturbance  in  the 
kraal  and  Menzi  appeared,  followed  by  a  man  carry- 
ing a  bag.  He  cried  back  in  the  same  strange 
voice : 

"I  hear.    I  come.    Tie  string  or  grass  round  the 


LITTLE  FLOWER  207 

lady  Imba's  finger  below  the  bite.  Tie  it  hard  till 
she  screams  with  pain/' 

Meanwhile  the  Christian  nurse  had  rushed  off 
over  the  crest  of  the  koppie  to  fetch  Thomas  and 
Dorcas,  or  either  of  them.  As  it  chanced  she  met 
them  both  walking  to  join  Tabitha  in  her  bower, 
and  thus  it  came  about  that  they  reached  the  place 
at  the  same  moment  as  did  old  Menzi  bounding  up 
the  rocks  like  a  klipspringer  buck,  or  a  mountain 
sheep.  Hearing  him,  Thomas  turned  in  the  narrow 
gateway  of  the  kraal  and  asked  wildly : 

"What  has  happened,  Witch-doctor?" 

"This  has  happened,  White-man,"  answered 
Menzi,  "the  Floweret  has  been  bitten  by  a  hooded 
snake  and  is  about  to  die.  Look  at  her/'  and  he 
pointed  to  Tabitha,  who  notwithstanding  the  venom 
sucking  and  the  grass  tied  round  her  blackened 
finger,  sat  huddled-up,  shivering  and  half  comatose. 

"Let  me  pass,  White-man,  that  I  may  save  her  if 
I  can,"  he  went  on. 

"Get  back,"  said  Thomas,  "I  will  have  none  of 
your  black  magic  practised  on  my  daughter.  If  she 
is  to  live  God  will  save  her." 

"What  medicines  have  you,  White-man?'"  asked 
Menzi. 

"None,  at  least  not  here.    Faith  is  my  medicine." 

Dorcas  looked  at  Tabitha.  She  was  turning  blue 
and  her  teeth  were  chattering. 

"Let  the  man  do  his  best,"  she  said  to  Thomas. 
"There  is  no  other  hope." 

"He  shan't  touch  her,"  replied  her  husband 
obstinately. 


208  LITTLE  FLOWER 

Then  Dorcas  fired  up,  meek-natured  though  she 
was  and  accustomed  though  she  was  to  obey  her 
husband's  will. 

"I  say  that  he  shall,"  she  cried.  "I  know  what 
he  can  do.  Don't  you  remember  the  goat?  I  will 
not  see  my  child  die  as  a  sacrifice  to  your  pride." 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  answered  Thomas. 
"If  she  dies  it  is  so  decreed,  and  the  spells  and  filth 
of  a  heathen  cannot  save  her." 

Dorcas  tried  to  thrust  him  aside  with  her  feeble 
strength,  but  big  and  burly,  he  stood  in  the  path  like 
a  rock,  blocking  the  way,  with  the  stone  entrance 
walls  of  the  little  pleasure-house  on  either  side  of 
him. 

Suddenly  the  old  Zulu,  Menzi,  became  rather 
terrible;  he  drew  himself  up;  he  seemed  to  swell  in 
size ;  his  thin  face  grew  set  and  fierce. 

"Out  of  the  path,  White-man!"  he  said,  "or  by 
Chaka's  head  I  will  kill  you,"  and  from  somewhere 
he  produced  a  long,  thin-bladed  knife  of  native  iron 
fixed  in  a  buck's  horn. 

"Kill  on,  Wizard,"  shouted  Thomas.  "Kill  if 
you  can." 

"Listen,"  said  Dorcas.  "If  our  daughter  dies  be- 
cause of  you,  then  I  have  done  with  you.  We  part 
for  ever.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  he  answered  heavily.  "So 
be  it." 

Tabitha  behind  them  made  some  convulsive  noise. 
Thomas  turned  and  looked  at  her;  she  was  slowly 
sinking  down  upon  her  side.  His  face  changed.  All 
the  rage  and  obstinacy  went  out  of  it. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  209 

"My  child!  Oh,  my  child!"  he  cried,  "I  cannot 
bear  this.  Love  is  stronger  than  all.  When  I  come 
up  for  judgment,  may  it  be  remembered  that  love  is 
stronger  than  all !" 

Then  he  stepped  out  of  the  gateway,  and  sat  down 
upon  a  stone  hiding  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

Menzi  threw  down  the  knife  and  leapt  in,  followed 
by  his  servant  who  bore  his  medicines,  and  the 
woman  Ivana.  He  did  his  office;  he  uttered  his 
spells  and  invocations,  he  rubbed  Dawa  into  the 
wound,  and  prising  open  the  child's  clenched  teeth, 
thrust  more  of  it,  a  great  deal  more,  down  her  throat, 
while  all  three  of  them  rubbed  her  cold  limbs. 

About  half  an  hour  afterwards  he  came  out  of  the 
place  followed  by  Ivana,  who  carried  Tabitha  in 
her  strong  arms;  Tabitha  very  weak,  but  smiling, 
and  with  the  colour  returning  to  her  cheeks.  Of 
Thomas  he  took  no  notice,  but  to  Dorcas  he  said : 

"Lady,  I  give  you  back  your  daughter.  She  is 
saved.  Let  her  drink  milk  and  sleep." 

Then  Thomas,  whose  judgment  and  chanty  were 
shaken  for  a  while,  spoke,  saying : 

"As  a  man  and  a  father  I  thank  you,  Witch-doctor, 
but  know  that  as  a  priest  I  swear  that  I  will  never 
have  more  to  do  with  you,  who,  I  am  sure,  by  your 
arts,  can  command  these  reptiles  to  work  your 
will  and  have  planned  all  this  to  shame  me.  No, 
not  even  if  you  lay  dying  would  I  come  to  visit 
you." 

Thus  stormed  Thomas  in  his  wrath  and  humilia- 
tion, believing  that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  a  plot 


210  LITTLE  FLOWER 

and  not  knowing  that  he  would  live  bitterly  to  regret 
his  words. 

"I  see  that  you  hate  me,  Teacher,"  said  Menzi, 
"and  though  here  I  do  not  find  the  gentleness  you 
preach,  I  do  not  wonder;  it  is  quite  natural.  Were 
I  you  I  should  do  the  same.  But  you  are  Little 
Flower's  father — strange  that  she  should  have  grown 
from  such  a  seed — and  though  we  fight,  for  that 
reason  I  cannot  hate  you.  Be  not  disturbed.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  sucking  of  the  wound  and  the  grass 
tied  round  her  finger  which  saved  her,  not  my  spells 
and  medicine.  No,  no,  I  cannot  hate  you,  although 
we  fight  for  mastery,  and  you  pelt  me  with  vile 
words,  saying  that  I  charmed  a  deadly  immamba  to 
bite  Little  Flower  whom  I  love,  that  I  might  cure 
her  and  make  a  mock  of  you.  Yet  I  do  hate  that 
snake  which  bit  the  maiden  Imba  of  its  own  wicked- 
ness, the  hooded  immamba  that  you  believe  to  be  my 
familiar,  and  it  shall  die.  Man/'  here  he  turned  to 
his  servant,  "and  you,  Ivana  and  the  others,  pull 
down  that  wall." 

They  leapt  to  do  his  bidding,  and  presently  dis- 
covered the  ringhals  in  its  hole.  Heedless  of  its 
fangs  and  writhings,  Menzi  sprang  at  it  with  a  Zulu 
curse,  and  seizing  it,  proceeded  to  kill  it  in  a  very 
slow  and  cruel  fashion. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  211 


VI 

THE  great  drought  fell  upon  Sisa-Land  like  a  curse 
from  Heaven.  For  month  after  month  the  sun  beat 
fiercely,  the  sky  was  as  brass,  and  no  rain  fell.  Even 
the  dews  seemed  to  depart.  The  springs  dried  up. 
The  river  Ukufa,  the  river  called  Death,  ceased  to 
flow,  so  that  water  could  only  be  found  in  its  deepest 
hollows.  The  pool  beneath  the  Rock  of  Evildoers, 
the  Death  Rock,  sank  till  the  bones  of  those  who  had 
been  murdered  there  many  years  before  appeared 
as  the  crocodiles  had  left  them.  Cattle  died  because 
there  was  no  grass;  cows  ceased  to  give  their  milk 
even  where  they  could  be  partially  fed  and  watered, 
so  that  the  little  children  died  also.  Even  in  the 
dampest  situations  the  crops  withered,  till  at  last  it 
became  certain  that  unless  rain  fell  within  a  month, 
before  another  cold  season  had  gone  by  there  would 
be  starvation  everywhere.  For  the  drought  was 
widespread,  and  therefore  corn  could  not  be  sent 
from  other  districts,  even  if  there  were  cattle  to 
draw  it. 

Every  day  Thomas  put  up  prayers  for  rain  in  the 
church,  and  on  two  occasions  held  special  services 
for  this  purpose.  These  were  better  attended  than 
any  others  had  ever  been,  because  his  congregation 
felt  that  the  matter  was  extremely  urgent,  affecting 
them  all,  and  that  now  was  the  time  when,  whatever 
happened  to  the  heathen,  good  Christians  like  them- 
selves should  be  rewarded. 


212  LITTLE  FLOWER 

However  this  did  not  chance,  since  the  drought 
went  on  as  fiercely  as  before. 

Menzi  was,  of  course,  a  rain-doctor,  a  "Heaven- 
herd"  of  the  highest  distinction;  one  who,  it  was 
reputed,  could  by  his  magic  cause  the  most  brazen 
sky  to  melt  in  tears.  His  services  had  been  called 
in  by  neighbouring  tribes,  with  the  result,  it  was 
rumoured,  that  those  tribes  had  been  rewarded  with 
partial  showers.  Also  with  great  ceremony  he  had 
gone  through  his  rites  for  the  benefit  of  the  heathen 
section  of  the  Sisa  people.  Behold !  by  some  curious 
accident  on  the  following  day  a  thunderstorm  had 
come  up,  and  with  it  a  short  deluge  of  rain  which 
sufficed  to  make  it  certain  that  the  crops  in  those 
fields  on  which  it  fell  would  keep  alive,  at  any  rate 
for  a  while. 

But  mark  what  happened.  As  is  not  uncommon 
in  the  case  of  thunder  showers,  this  rain  fell  upon 
the  lands  which  the  heathen  cultivated  on  one  side 
of  the  koppie,  whereas  those  that  belonged  to- the 
Christian  section  upon  the  other  side  received  not 
a  single  drop.  The  unjust  were  bedewed,  the  just 
were  left  dry  as  bones.  All  that  they  received  was 
the  lightning,  which  killed  an  old  man,  one  of  the 
best  Christians  in  the  place.  The  limits  of  the  tor- 
rent might  have  been  marked  off  with  a  line.  When 
it  had  passed,  to  the  heathen  right  stood  pools  of 
water;  to  the  Christian  left  there  was  nothing  but 
blowing  dust. 

Now  these  Christians,  weak-kneed  some  of  them, 
began  to  murmur,  especially  those  who,  having 
passed  through  a  similar  experience  in  their  youth, 


LITTLE  FLOWER  213 

remembered  what  starvation  meant  in  that  country. 
Religion,  they  reflected,  was  all  very  well,  but  with- 
out mealies  they  could  not  live,  and  without  Kaffir 
corn  there  would  be  no  beer.  Indeed,  metaphorically, 
before  long  they  passed  from  murmurs  to  shouting, 
and  their  shouts  said  this:  Menzi  must  be  invited 
to  celebrate  a  rain-service  in  his  own  fashion  for  the 
jbenefit  of  the  entire  tribe. 

Thomas  argued  in  vain.  He  grew  angry;  he 
called  them  names  which  doubtless  they  deserved; 
he  said  that  they  were  spiritual  outcasts.  By  this 
time,  being  frantic,  his  flock  did  not  care  what  he 
said.  Either  Menzi  must  come,  they  explained,  or 
they  would  turn  heathen.  The  Great  One  in  the  sky 
could  work  as  well  through  Menzi  as  through  him, 
Tombool,  or  anybody  else.  Menzi  must  come. 

Thomas  threatened  to  excommunicate  them  all,  a 
menace  which  did  not  amount  to  much  as  they  were 
already  excommunicating  themselves,  and  when  they 
remained  obstinate,  told  them  that  he  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  this  rain-making  business,  which 
was  unholy  and  repugnant  to  him.  He  told  them, 
moreover,  that  he  was  certain  that  their  wickedness 
would  bring  some  judgment  upon  them,  in  which 
he  proved  to  be  right. 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Menzi  was  summoned,  and 
arrived  with  a  triumphant  smile,  saying  that  he  was 
certain  he  could  put  everything  in  order,  and  that 
soon  they  would  have  plenty  of  rain,  that  is,  if  they 
all  attended  his  invocations  and  made  him  presents 
suitable  to  so  great  an  occasion. 

The  result  was  that  they  did  attend  them,  man, 


214  LITTLE  FLOWER 

woman  and  child,  seated  in  a  circle  in  that  same  old 
kraal  where  the  witch-doctor  had  so  marvellously 
shown  pictures  upon  the  smoke.  Each  of  them  also 
brought  his  gift  in  his  hand,  or,  if  it  were  a  living 
thing,  drove  it  before  him. 

Thomas  went  down  and  addressed  them  in  the 
midst  of  a  sullen  silence,  calling  them  wicked  and 
repeating  his  belief  that  they  would  bring  a  judgment 
on  their  own  heads,  they  who  were  worshipping  Baal 
and  making  offerings  to  his  priest. 

After  he  had  talked  himself  hoarse,  Menzi  said 
mildly  that  if  the  Teacher  Tombool  had  finished  he 
would  get  to  business.  Why  should  the  Teacher  be 
angry  because  he,  Menzi,  offered  to  do  what  the 
Teacher  could  not — save  the  land  from  starving? 
And  as  for  the  gifts  to  himself,  did  not  White 
Teachers  also  receive  pay  and  offerings  at  certain 
feasts  ? 

Then,  making  a  gesture  of  despair,  Thomas  re- 
turned to  his  house,  and  with  Dorcas  and  Tabitha 
watched  the  savage  ceremony  from  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  that  overhung  the  river,  or  rather  what  had  been 
the  river.  He  could  not  see  much  of  it  because  they 
were  too  far  away,  but  he  perceived  those  apostate 
Christians  prostrating  themselves  at  Menzi's  order, 
probably,  he  reflected,  to  make  prayers  to  the  devil. 
In  fact  they  were  not  doing  this,  but  only  repeating 
Menzi's  magical  chants  with  appropriate  gestures, 
as  for  countless  ages  their  forefathers  had  done  upon 
similar  occasions. 

Next  an  unfortunate  black  goat  was  dragged  for- 
ward by  the  horns,  a  very  thin  black  goat,  and  its 


LITTLE  FLOWER  215 

throat  was  cut  over  a  little  fire,  a  sacrifice  that 
suggested  necromancy  of  the  most  Satanic  sort. 

After  this  Thomas  and  his  family  went  back  into 
the  house  and  shut  the  windows,  that  they  might 
not  hear  the  unholy  shoutings  of  the  misguided  mob. 
When  they  went  out  again  Menzi  had  departed,  and 
so  had  the  others.  The  place  was  empty. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday,  and  Thomas 
locked  the  church  on  the  inner  side,  and  read  the 
service  with  Dorcas  and  Tabitha  for  sole  congrega- 
tion. It  was  a  melancholy  business,  for  some  sense 
of  evil  seemed  to  hang  over  all  three  of  them,  also 
over  everybody  else,  for  the  Christians  went  about 
with  dejected  looks  and  not  one  person  spoke  to 
them.  Only  Ivana  came  at  night  as  usual  to  sleep 
with  Tabitha,  though  even  she  said  nothing. 

Next  morning  they  woke  up  to  find  the  heavens 
black  with  clouds,  heavy,  ominous  clouds;  the  truth 
being  that  the  drought  was  drawing  to  its  natural 
end.  Thomas  noted  this,  and  reflected  bitterly  how 
hard  it  was  that  this  end  should  not  have  come 
twenty-four  hours  earlier.  But  so  events  had  been 
decreed  and  he  was  helpless. 

By  midday  it  began  to  rain,  lightly  at  first,  and 
from  his  rock  he  could  see  the  people,  looking  un- 
natural and  distorted  in  that  strange  gloom,  for  the 
clouds  had  descended  almost  to  the  earth,  rushing 
about,  holding  out  their  hands  as  though  to  clasp 
the  blessed  moisture  and  talking  excitedly  one  to 
the  other.  Soon  they  were  driven  into  their  huts, 
for  the  rain  turned  to  a  kind  of  waterspout.  Never 
had  such  rain  been  known  in  Sisa-Land. 


216  LITTLE  FLOWER 

All  that  afternoon  it  poured,  and  all  the  night  with 
ever-increasing  violence;  yes,  and  all  the  following 
morning,  so  that  by  noon  Thomas's  rain-gauge 
showed  that  over  twelve  inches  had  fallen  in  about 
twenty-four  hours,  and  it  was  still  raining.  Water 
rushed  down  from  the  koppie;  even  their  well-built 
house  could  not  keep  out  the  wet,  and,  to  the  despair 
of  Dorcas,  several  of  the  rooms  were  flooded  and 
some  of  the  new  furniture  was  spoiled.  The  river 
beneath  had  become  a  raging  torrent,  and  was  rising 
every  hour.  Already  it  was  over  its  banks,  and  the 
water  had  got  into  the  huts  of  the  Chief's  kraal  and 
the  village  round  it,  so  that  their  occupants  were 
obliged  to  seek  safety  upon  the  lower  rocks  of  the 
koppie,  where  they  sat  shivering  in  the  wet. 

Night  came  at  last,  and  through  the  darkness  they 
heard  cries  as  of  people  in  distress.  The  long  hours 
wore  away  till  dawn,  a  melancholy  dawn,  for  still  it 
rained,  though  more  lightly  now,  and  no  sun  could 
be  seen. 

"Father,"  cried  Tabitha,  who,  clad  in  oilskins, 
had  gone  a  little  way  down  the  road,  "come  here  and 
look/' 

He  went.  The  child  pointed  to  the  village  below, 
or  rather  what  had  been  the  village,  for  now  there 
was  none.  It  had  gone  and  with  it  Kosa's  kraal; 
the  site  was  a  pool,  the  huts  had  vanished,  all  of 
them,  and  some  of  the  roofs  lay  upon  the  sides  of 
the  koppie,  looking  like  overturned  coracles.  Only 
the  church  and  the  graveyard  remained,  for  those 
stood  on  slightly  higher  ground  by  the  banks  of  the 
river. 


LITTLE  FLOWER  217 

A  little  while  later  a  miserable  and  dejected  crowd 
arrived  at  the  mission-house,  wrapped  up  in  blankets 
or  anything  else  that  they  had  managed  to  save. 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  asked  Thomas. 

"Teacher/'  replied  the  Chief  Kosa,  with  twitching 
face  and  rolling  eyes,  "we  want  you  to  come  down  to 
the  church  and  pray  for  us.  Our  houses  are  gone, 
our  fields  are  washed  away.  We  want  you  to  come 
to  pray  for  us,  for  more  rain  is  gathering  on  the  hills 
and  we  are  afraid." 

"You  mean  that  you  are  cold  and  wish  to  take 
refuge  in  the  church,  of  which  I  have  the  key.  You 
have  sought  rain  and  now  you  have  got  rain,  such 
rain  as  you  deserve.  Why  do  you  complain?  Go 
to  your  witch-doctor  and  ask  him  to  save  you." 

"Teacher,  come  down  to  the  church  and  pray  for 
us,"  they  wailed. 

In  the  end  Thomas  went,  for  his  heart  was 
moved  to  pity,  and  Dorcas  and  Tabitha  went  with' 
him. 

They  entered  the  church,  wading  to  it  through 
several  inches  of  water,  and  the  service  of  interces- 
sion began,  attended  by  every  Christian  in  the  place 
— except  a  few  who  were  drowned — a  miserable  and 
heartily  repentant  crowd. 

While  it  was  still  in  progress  suddenly  there  was 
a  commotion,  and  Menzi  himself  rushed  into  the 
church.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  entered 
there. 

"Come  forth!"  He  crie'd.  "Come  forth  if  you 
would  save  your  lives.  The  water  has  eaten  away 


218  LITTLE  FLOWER 

the  ground  underneath  this  Heaven-house.  It  falls! 
I  say  it  falls !" 

Then  he  peered  about  him  in  the  shadowed  place 
till  he  found  Tabitha.  Leaping  at  her,  he  threw  his 
long  thin  arms  round  her  and  bore  her  from  the 
church.  The  others  began  to  follow  swiftly,  and  as 
Menzi  passed  the  door  carrying  Tabitha,  there  came 
a  dreadful  rending  sound,  and  one  of  the  walls 
opened,  letting  in  the  light. 

All  fled  forth,  Thomas  still  in  his  surplice  and  his 
soul  filled  with  bitterness,  for  as  he  went  it  came 
into  his  mind  that  this  must  be  a  farewell  to  that 
cherished  church  reared  with  so  much  love,  cost  and 
labour. 

Outside  the  building  on  a  patch  of  higher  land, 
an  upthrown  plateau  of  rock,  where  presently  all 
gathered  beyond  the  reach  of  the  waters,  stood  Menzi 
and  Tabitha.  Thomas  looked  at  him  and  said  : 

"Doubtless  you  think  that  your  spells  have  worked 
well,  Witch-doctor,  for  see  the  ruin  about  us.  Yet 
I  hold  otherwise,  and  say,  'Wait  till  the  end !'  To 
set  a  rock  rolling  down  a  hill  is  easy  for  those  who 
have  the  strength.  But  who  knows  on  whom  it  will 
fall  at  last?" 

"You  speak  foolishly,  Teacher,"  answered  Menzi. 
"I  do  not  think  that  my  spells  have  worked  well,  for 
something  stronger  than  I  am  has  spoiled  them. 
Mayhap  it  is  you,  Teacher,  or  the  Great-Great  whom 
you  serve  in  your  own  fashion.  I  do  not  know,  but 
I  pray  you  to  remember  that  long  since  on  the  smoke 
of  my  magic  fire  I  showed  you  what  would  come 
about  if  you  re-built  the  Heaven-house  upon  this 


LITTLE  FLOWER  219 

place.  But  you  said  I  was  a  cheat  and  would  not  be 
warned.  Therefore  things  have  gone  as  the  Spirits 
appointed  that  they  should  go.  Your  Christians 
made  me  gifts  and  asked  me  to  bring  rain  and  it  has 
come  in  plenty,  and  with  it  other  things,  more  than 
you  asked.  Look/'  and  he  pointed  downwards. 

The  church  was  falling.  Its  last  foundations  were 
washed  away.  Down  it  came  with  a  mighty  crash, 
to  melt  into  the  flood  that  presently  filled  the  place 
where  it  had  been.  Its  collapse  and  the  noise  of  it 
were  terrible,  so  terrible  that  the  Christians  gathered 
on  the  rock  uttered  a  heart-rending  wail  of  woe. 
The  spire,  being  built  upon  a  deeper  bed  because  of 
its  weight,  stood  longer  than  the  rest  of  the  fabric, 
but  presently  it  went  also. 

Thrice  it  seemed  to  bow  towards  them,  then  it 
fell  like  a  child's  castle.  Reckoning  its  height  with 
his  eye,  Thomas  saw  that  it  could  not  reach  them 
where  they  stood,  and  so  did  the  others,  therefore 
no  one  stirred.  As  the  tower  collapsed  the  clock 
sounded  the  first  stroke  of  the  hour,  then  suddenly 
became  silent  for  ever  and  vanished  beneath  the 
waters,  a  mass  of  broken  metal. 

But  the  bell  on  which  it  had  struck  was  hurled 
forward  by  the  sway  of  the  fall  like  a  stone  from 
a  sling.  It  sped  towards  them  through  the  air,  a 
great  dark  object.  Men  ran  this  way  and  that,  so 
that  it  fell  upon  the  rock  where  none  stood.  It  fell ; 
it  flew  to  pieces  like  an  exploding  shell,  and  its 
fragments  hurtled  over  them1  with  a  screaming 
sound.  Yet  as  it  chanced  the  tongue  or  clapper  of 
it  took  a  lower  course,  perhaps  because  it  was  heavier, 


220  LITTLE  FLOWER 

and  rushing  onwards  like  a  thrown  spear,  struck 
Menzi  full  upon  the  chest,  crushing  in  his  breast 
bone. 

They  bore  him  up  to  the  mission-house,  since 
there  was  nowhere  else  whither  he  could  be  taken. 
Here  they  laid  him  on  a  bed,  leaving  the  woman, 
Ivana,  to  watch  him,  for  they  had  no  skill  to  deal 
with  such  injuries  as  his.  Indeed,  they  thought  him 
dead. 

For  a  long  while  Menzi  lay  senseless,  but  after 
night  had  fallen  his  mind  returned  to  him  and  he 
bade  Ivana  bring  Tabitha  to  him,  Tabitha  and  no 
one  else.  If  she  could  not  or  would  not  come,  then 
Ivana  must  bring  no  one  else,  for  if  she  did  he 
would  curse  her  and  die  at  once. 

There  were  discussions  and  remonstrances,  but  in 
the  end  Tabitha  was  allowed  to  go,  for  after  all  a 
fellow-creature  was  dying,  and  this  was  his  last  wish. 
She  came,  and  Menzi  received  her  smiling.  Yes,  he 
smiled  and  saluted  her  with  shaking  but  uplifted 
arm,  naming  her  Inkosikasi  and  Umame,  or  Mother. 

"Welcome,  Maiden  Imba.  Welcome,  Little 
Flower/'  he  said.  "I  wish  to  say  good-bye  to  you 
and  to  bless  you ;  also  to  endow  you  with  my  Spirit, 
that  it  may  guard  you  throughout  your  life  till  you 
are  as  I  am.  I  have  hated  some  of  the  others,  but 
I  have  always  loved  you,  Little  Flower." 

"And  I  have  loved  you  too,  Menzi,"  said  Tabitha, 
with  a  sob. 

"I  know,  I  know !  We  witch-doctors  read  hearts. 
But  do  not  weep,  Little  Flower.  Why  should  you 
for  such  as  I,  a  black  man,  a  mere  savage  cheat,  as 


LITTLE  FLOWER  221 

your  father  named  me?  Yet  I  have  not  been  alto- 
gether a  cheat,  O  Imba,  though  sometimes  I  used 
tricks  like  other  doctors,  for  I  have  a  strength  of 
my  own  which  your  white  people  will  never  under- 
stand, because  they  are  too  young  to  understand. 
It  only  comes  to  the  old  folk  who  have  been  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world,  and  remain  as  they  were  at 
the  beginning.  I  have  been  wicked,  Little  Flower, 
according  to  your  white  law.  I  have  killed  men  and 
done  many  other  things  that  are  according  to  the 
law  of  my  own  people,  and  by  that  law  I  look  for 
judgment.  Yet,  O  Imba,  I  will  say  this — that  I 
believe  your  law  to  be  higher  and  better  than  my 
law.  Has  it  not  been  shown  to-day,  since  of  all  that 
were  gathered  on  the  rock  yonder  I  alone  was  struck 
down  and  in  the  hour  of  my  victory?  The  strongest 
law  must  be  the  best  law,  is  it  not  so?  Tell  me,  Little 
Flower,  would  it  please  you  if  I  died  a  Christian?" 

"Yes,  very  much,"  said  Tabitha,  fixing  upon  this 
point  at  once  and  by  instinct  avoiding  all  the  other 
very  doubtful  disputations.  "I  will  bring  my 
father." 

"Nay,  nay,  Little  Flower.  Your  father,  the 
Teacher  Tombool,  swore  in  his  wrath  that  he  would 
not  come  to  visit  me  even  if  I  lay  dying,  and  now 
that  I  am  dying  he  shall  keep  his  oath  and  repent  of 
it  day  by  day  till  he  too  is  dying.  If  I  am  to  die  a 
Christian,  you  must  make  me  one  this  moment ;  you 
and  no  other.  Otherwise  I  go  hence  a  heathen  as  I 
have  lived.  If  you  bring  your  father  here  I  will  die 
at  once  before  he  can  touch  me,  as  I  have  power 
to  do." 


222  LITTLE  FLOWER 

Then  Tabitha,  who  although  so  young  had 
strength  and  understanding  and  knew,  if  she 
thwarted  him,  that  Menzi  would  do  as  he  threatened, 
took  water  and  made  a  certain  Sign  upon  the  brow 
of  that  old  witch-doctor,  uttering  also  certain  words 
that  she  had  often  heard  used  in  church  at  baptisms. 

Perhaps  she  was  wrong ;  perhaps  she  transgressed 
and  took  too  much  upon  her.  Still,  being  by  nature 
courageous,  she  ran  the  risk  and  did  these  things  as 
afterwards  Ivana  testified  to  the  followers  of  Menzi. 

"Thank  you,  Little  Flower,"  said  Menzi.  "I  do 
not  suppose  that  this  Christian  magic  will  do  me  any 
good,  but  that  you  wished  it  is  enough.  It  will  be 
a  rope  to  tie  us  together,  Little  Flower.  Also  I  have 
another  thought.  When  it  is  known  that  I  became 
a  Christian  at  the  last  then,  if  you  bid  them,  Little 
Flower,  the  'heathen-herd'  will  follow  where  the 
bull  Menzi  went  before  them.  They  are  but  broken 
sherds  and  scorched  sticks"  (i.e.  rubbish)  "but  they 
will  follow  and  that  will  please  you,  Little  Flower, 
and  your  father  also." 

Here  Menzi's  breath  failed,  but  recovering  it,  he 
continued : 

"Heaken !  O  Imba !  I  give  my  people  into  your 
hand ;  now  let  your  hand  bend  the  twig  as  you  would 
have  it  grow.  Make  them  Christian  if  you  will,  or 
leave  them  heathen  if  you  will;  I  care  nothing. 
They  are  yours  to  drive  upon  whatever  path  you 
choose  to  set  their  feet,  yours,  O  Imba,  not  Tom- 
boors.  Also,  I,  who  lack  heirs,  give  you  my  cattle, 
all  of  them.  Ivana,  make  known  my  words,  and 
with  them  the  curse  of  Menzi,  the  King's  child,  the 


LITTLE  FLOWER  223 

Umazisi,  the  Seer,  on  any  who  dare  to  disobey.  Say 
to  those  of  my  House  and  to  my  people  that  hence- 
forth the  Maiden  Imba  is  their  lady  and  their 
mother." 

Again  he  paused  a  little,  then  went  on : 

"Now  I  charge  my  Spirit  to  watch  over  you,  Little 
Flower,  till  you  die  and  we  come  to  talk  over  these 
matters  otherwhere,  and  my  Spirit  as  it  departs  tells 
me  that  it  will  watch  well,  and  that  you  will  be  a 
very  happy  woman,  Little  Flower." 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  lay  still  a  while.  Then  he 
opened  them  again  and  said : 

"O  Imba,  tell  your  father,  the  Teacher  Tombool, 
from  me  that  he  does  not  understand  us  black  people, 
whom  he  thinks  so  common,  as  you  understand  us, 
Little  Flower,  and  that  he  would  be  wise  to  go  to 
minister  to  white  ones." 

After  this,  once  more  he  smiled  at  Tabitha  and 
then  shut  his  eyes  again  for  the  last  time,  and  that 
was  the  end  of  the  witch-doctor  Menzi. 

It  may  be  added  that  after  he  had  rebuilt  the 
church  for  the  second  time,  and  numbered  all  the 
"Menzi-herd"  among  his  congregation,  which  he  did 
now  that  "the  bull  of  the  herd"  was  dead,  as  Menzi 
had  foretold  that  he  would,  if  Tabitha,  whom  he  had 
"wrapped  with  his  blanket,"  decreed  it,  Thomas  took 
the  sage  advice  of  his  departed  enemy. 

Now,  in  the  after  years,  he  is  the  much  respected 
if  somewhat  feared  bishop  of  white  settlers  in  a 
remote  Dominion  of  the  Crown. 

Thomas  to-day  knows  more  than  he  used  to  know, 


224  LITTLE  FLOWER 

but  one  thing  he  has  never  learned,  namely,  that  it 
was  the  hand  of  a  maid,  yes,  the  little  hidden  hand  of 
Tabitha,  that  drove  all  "Menzi's  herd"  into  the  gates 
of  the  "Heavenly  Kraal,"  as  some  of  them  named 
his  church. 

For  Tabitha  knew  when  to  be  silent.  Perhaps  the 
Kaffirs,  whose  minds  she  could  read  like  an  open 
book,  taught  her  this;  or  perhaps  it  was  one  of  the 
best  gifts  to  her  of  old  Menzi's  "Spirit,"  into  whose 
care  he  passed  her  with  so  much  formality. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  great  fight  between  Thomas 
Bull  the  missionary  and  Menzi  the  witch-doctor,  who 
was  led  by  his  love  of  a  little  child  whither  he  never 
wished  to  go;  not  for  his  own  soul's  sake,  but  just 
because  of  that  little  child. 

Menzi  did  not  care  about  his  soul,  but,  being  so 
strange  a  man,  for  some  reason  that  he  never  ex- 
plained, for  Tabitha,  his  "Little  Flower,"  he  cared 
very  much  indeed.  That  was  why  he  became  a 
Christian  at  the  last,  since  in  his  darkened,  spell- 
bound heart  he  believed  that  if  he  did  not,  when  she 
too  "went  down"  he  would  never  find  her  again. 


Only  a  Dream 

FOOTPRINTS — footprints — the  footprints  of  one  dead. 
How  ghastly  they  look  as  they  fall  before  me !  Up 
and  down  the  long  hall  they  go,  and  I  follow  them. 
Pit,  pat  they  fall,  those  unearthly  steps,  and  beneath 
them  starts  up  that  awful  impress.  I  can  see  it  grow 
upon  the  marble,  a  damp  and  dreadful  thing. 

Tread  them  down;  tread  them  out;  follow  after 
them  with  muddy  shoes,  and  cover  them  up.  In 
vain.  See  how  they  rise  through  the  mire!  Who 
can  tread  out  the  footprints  of  the  dead  ? 

And  so  on,  up  and  down  the  dim  vista  of  the  past, 
following  the  sound  of  the  dead  feet  that  wander  so 
restlessly,  stamping  upon  the  impress  that  will  not 
be  stamped  out.  Rave  on,  wild  wind,  eternal  voice 
of  human  misery;  fall,  dead  footsteps,  eternal  echo 
of  human  memory;  stamp,  miry  feet;  stamp  into 
forgetfulness  that  which  will  not  be  forgotten. 

And  so  on,  on  to  the  end. 

Pretty  ideas  these  for  a  man  about  to  be  married, 
especially  when  they  float  into  his  brain  at  night  like 
ominous  clouds  into  a  summer  sky,  and  he  is  going 
to  be  married  to-morrow.  There  is  no  mistake  about 

225 


226  ONLY  A  DREAM 

it— the  wedding,  I  mean.  To  be  plain  and  matter- 
of-fact,  why  there  stand  the  presents,  or  some  of 
them,  and  very  handsome  presents  they  are,  ranged 
in  solemn  rows  upon  the  long  table.  It  is  a  remark- 
able thing  to  observe  when  one  is  about  to  make  a 
really  satisfactory  marriage  how  scores  of  unsus- 
pected or  forgotten  friends  crop  up  and  send  little 
tokens  of  their  esteem.  It  was  very  different  when 
I  married  my  first  wife,  I  remember,  but  then  that 
marriage  was  not  satisfactory — just  a  love-match,  no 
more. 

There  they  stand  in  solemn  rows,  as  I  have  said, 
and  inspire  me  with  beautiful  thoughts  about  the 
innate  kindness  of  human  nature,  especially  the 
human  nature  of  our  distant  cousins.  It  is  possible 
to  grow  almost  poetical  over  a  silver  teapot  when  one 
is  going  to  be  married  to-morrow.  On  how  many 
future  mornings  shall  I  be  confronted  with  that  tea- 
pot? Probably  for  all  my  life ;  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  teapot  will  be  the  cream  jug,  and  the  electro- 
plated urn  will  hiss  away  behind  them  both.  Also 
the  chased  sugar  basin  will  be  in  front,  full  of  sugar, 
and  behind  everything  will  be  my  second  wife. 

"My  dear,"  she  will  say,  "will  you  have  another 
cup  of  tea?"  and  probably  I  shall  have  another  cup. 

Well,  it  is  very  curious  to  notice  what  ideas  will 
come  into  a  man's  head  sometimes.  Sometimes 
something  waves  a  magic  wand  over  his  being,  and 
from  the  recesses  of  his  soul  dim  things  arise  and 
walk.  At  unexpected  moments  they  come,  and  he 
grows  aware  of  the  issues  of  his  mysterious  life,  and 
his  heart  shakes  and  shivers  like  a  lightning-shat- 


ONLY  A  DREAM  227 

tered  tree.  In  that  drear  light  all  earthly  things  seem 
far,  and  all  unseen  things  draw  near  and  take  shape 
and  awe  him,  and  he  knows  not  what  is  true  and 
what  is  false,  neither  can  he  trace  the  edge  that 
marks  off  the  Spirit  from  the  Life.  Then  it  is  that 
the  footsteps  echo,  and  the  ghostly  footprints  will 
not  be  stamped  out. 

Pretty  thoughts  again!  and  how  persistently  they 
come!  It  is  one  o'clock  and  I  will  go  to  bed.  The 
rain  is  falling  in  sheets  outside.  I  can  hear  it  lashing 
against  the  window  panes,  and  the  wind  wails 
through  the  tall  wet  elms  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 
I  could  tell  the  voice  of  those  elms  anywhere ;  I  know 
it  as  well  as  the  voice  of  a  friend.  What  a  night  it 
is ;  we  sometimes  get  them  in  this  part  of  England  in 
October.  It  was  just  such  a  night  when  my  first 
wife  died,  and  that  is  three  years  ago.  I  remember 
how  she  sat  up  in  her  bed. 

"Ah !  those  horrible  elms/'  she  said ;  "I  wish  you 
would  have  them  cut  down,  Frank;  they  cry  like  a 
woman/'  and  I  said  I  would,  and  just  after  that  she 
died,  poor  dear.  And  so  the  old  elms  stand,  and  I 
like  their  music.  It  is  a  strange  thing;  I  was  half 
broken-hearted,  for  I  loved  her  dearly,  and  she  loved 
me  with  all  her  life  and  strength,  and  now — I  am 
going  to  be  married  again. 

"Frank,  Frank,  don't  forget  me!"  Those  were 
my  wife's  last  words;  and,  indeed,  though  I  am 
going  to  be  married  again  to-morrow,  I  have  not 
forgotten  her.  Nor  shall  I  forget  how  Annie 
Guthrie  (whom  I  am  going  to  marry  now)  came  to 
see  her  the  day  before  she  died.  I  know  that  Annie 


228  ONLY  A  DREAM 

always  liked  me  more  or  less,  and  I  think  that  my 
dear  wife  guessed  it.  After  she  had  kissed  Annie 
and  bid  her  a  last  good-bye,  and  the  door  had  closed, 
she  spoke  quite  suddenly :  "There  goes  your  future 
wife,  Frank,"  she  said;  "you  should  have  married 
her  at  first  instead  of  me ;  she  is  very  handsome  and 
very  good,  and  she  has  two  thousand  a  year;  she 
would  never  have  died  of  a  nervous  illness."  And 
she  laughed  a  little,  and  then  added : 

"Oh,  Frank  dear,  I  wonder  if  you  will  think  of  me 
before  you  marry  Annie  Guthrie.  Wherever  I  am  I 
shall  be  thinking  of  you." 

And  now  that  time  which  she  foresaw  has  come, 
and  Heaven  knows  that  I  have  thought  of  her,  poor 
dear.  Ah!  those  footsteps  of  one  dead  that  will 
echo  through  our  lives,  those  woman's  footprints  on 
the  marble  flooring  which  will  not  be  stamped  out. 
Most  of  us  have  heard  and  seen  them  at  some  time  or 
other,  and  I  hear  and  see  them  very  plainly  to-night. 
Poor  dead  wife,  I  wonder  if  there  are  any  doors  in 
the  land  where  you  have  gone  through  which  you 
can  creep  out  to  look  at  me  to-night?  I  hope  that 
there  are  none.  Death  must  indeed  be  a  hell  if  the 
dead  can  see  and  feel  and  take  measure  of  the  for- 
getful faithlessness  of  their  beloved.  Well,  I  will 
go  to  bed  and  try  to  get  a  little  rest.  I  am  not  so 
young  or  so  strong  as  I  was,  and  this  wedding  wears 
me  out.  I  wish  that  the  whole  thing  were  done  or 
had  never  been  begun. 

What  was  that  ?  It  was  not  tHe  wind,  for  it  never 
makes  that  sound  here,  and  it  was  not  the  rain, 


ONLY  A  DREAM  229 

-  since  the  rain  has  ceased  its  surging  for  a  moment; 
nor  was  it  the  howling  of  a  dog,  for  I  keep  none. 
It  was  more  like  the  crying  of  a  woman's  voice ;  but 
what  woman  can  be  abroad  on  such  a  night  or  at 
such  an  hour — half-past  one  in  the  morning? 

There  it  is  again — a  dreadful  sound ;  it  makes  the 
blood  turn  chill,  and  yet  has  something  familiar 
about  it.  It  is  a  woman's  voice  calling  round  the 
house.  There,  she  is  at  the  window  now,  and 
rattling  it,  and,  great  heavens !  she  is  calling  me. 

"Frank!  Frank!  Frank!"  she  calls. 

I  strive  to  stir  and  unshutter  that  window,  but 
before  I  can  get  there  she  is  knocking  and  calling 
at  another. 

Gone  again,  with  her  dreadful  wail  of  "Frank! 
Frank!"  Now  I  hear  her  at  the  front  door,  and, 
half  mad  with  a  horrible  fear,  I  run  down  the  long, 
dark  hall  and  unbar  it.  There  is  nothing  there — 
nothing  but  the  wild  rush  of  the  wind  and  the  drip 
of  the  rain  from  the  portico.  But  I  can  hear  the 
wailing  voice  going  round  the  house,  past  the  patch 
of  shrubbery.  I  close  the  door  and  listen.  There, 
she  has  got  through  the  little  yard,  and  is  at  the 
back  door  now.  Whoever  it  is,  she  must  know  the 
way  about  the  house.  Along  the  hall  I  go  again, 
through  a  swing  door,  through  the  servants'  hall, 
stumbling  down  some  steps  into  the  kitchen,  where 
the  embers  of  the  fire  are  still  alive  in  the  grate, 
diffusing  a  little  warmth  and  light  into  the  dense 
gloom. 

Whoever  it  is  at  the  door  is  knocking  now  with 
her  clenched  fist  against  the  hard  wood,  and  it  is 


230  ONLY  A  DREAM 

wonderful,  though  she  knocks  so  low,  how  the  sound 

echoes  through  the  empty  kitchens. 

***** 

There  I  stood  and  hesitated,  trembling  in  every 
limb ;  I  dared  not  open  the  door.  No  words  of  mine 
can  convey  the  sense  of  utter  desolution  that  over- 
powered me.  I  felt  as  though  I  were  the  only  living 
man  in  the  whole  world. 

"Frank!  Frank!"  cries  the  voice  with  the  dreadful 
familiar  ring  in  it.  "Open  the  door;  I  am  so  cold. 
I  have  so  little  time." 

My  heart  stood  still,  and  yet  my  hands  were  con- 
strained to  obey.  Slowly,  slowly  I  lifted  the  latch 
and  unbarred  the  door,  and,  as  I  did  so,  a  great  rush 
of  air  snatched  it  from  my  hands  and  swept  it  wide. 
The  black  clouds  had  broken  a  little  overhead,  and 
there  was  a  patch  of  blue,  rain-washed  sky  with  just 
a  star  or  two  glimmering  in  it  fitfully.  For  a 
moment  I  could  only  see  this  bit  of  sky,  and  by 
degrees  I  made  out  the  accustomed  outline  of  the 
great  trees  swinging  furiously  against  it,  and  the 
rigid  line  of  the  coping  of  the  garden  wall  beneath 
them.  Then  a  whirling  leaf  hit  me  smartly  on  the 
face,  and  instinctively  I  dropped  my  eyes  on  to  some- 
thing that  as  yet  I  could  not  distinguish — something 
small  and  black  and  wet. 

"What  are  you?"  I  gasped.  Somehow  I  seemed 
to  feel  that  it  was  not  a  person — I  could  not  say, 
Who  are  you  ?" 

"Don't  you  know  me  ?"  wailed  the  voice,  with  the 
far-off  familiar  ring  about  it.  "And  I  mayn't  come 
in  and  show  myself.  I  haven't  the  time.  You  were 


ONLY  A  DREAM  231 

so  long  opening  the  door,  Frank,  and  I  am  so  cold — 
oh,  so  bitterly  cold !  Look  there,  the  moon  is  com- 
ing out,  and  you  will  be  able  to  see  me.  I  suppose 
that  you  long  to  see  me,  as  I  have  longed  to  see  you." 

As  the  figure  spoke,  or  rather  wailed,  a  moonbeam 
struggled  through  the  watery  air  and  fell  on  it.  It 
was  short  and  shrunken,  the  figure  of  a  tiny  woman. 
Also  it  was  dressed  in  black  and  wore  a  black  cover- 
ing over  the  whole  head,  shrouding  it,  after  the 
fashion  of  a  bridal  veil.  From  every  part  of  this 
veil  and  dress  the  water  fell  in  heavy  drops. 

The  figure  bore  a  small  basket  on  her  left  arm, 
and  her  hand — such  a  poor  thin  little  hand — gleamed 
white  in  the  moonlight.  I  noticed  that  on  the  third 
finger  was  a  red  line,  showing  that  a  wedding-ring 
had  once  been  there.  The  other  hand  was  stretched 
towards  me  as  though  in  entreaty. 

All  this  I  saw  in  an  instant,  as  it  were,  and  as  I 
saw  it,  horror  seemed  to  grip  me  by  the  throat  as 
though  it  were  a  living  thing,  for  as  the  voice  had 
been  familiar,  so  was  the  form  familiar,  though  the 
churchyard  had  received  it  long  years  ago.  I  could 
not  speak — I  could  not  even  move. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know  me  yet?"  wailed  the  voice; 
"and  I  have  come  from  so  far  to  see  you,  and  I  can- 
not stop.  Look,  look,"  and  she  began  to  pluck 
feverishly  with  her  poor  thin  hand  at  the  black  veil 
that  enshrouded  her.  At  last  it  came  off,  and,  as  in 
a  dream,  I  saw  what  in  a  dim  frozen  way  I  had  ex- 
pected to  see — the  white  face  and  pale  yellow  hair  of 
my  dead  wife.  Unable  to  speak  or  stir,  I  gazed  and 
gazed.  There  was  no  mistake  about  it,  it  was  she, 


232  ONLY  A  DREAM 

ay,  even  as  I  had  last  seen  her,  white  with  the  white- 
ness of  death,  with  purple  circles  round  her  eyes  and 
the  grave-cloth  yet  beneath  her  chin.  Only  her  eyes 
were  wide  open  and  fixed  upon  my  face ;  and  a  lock 
of  the  soft  yellow  hair  had  broken  loose,  and  the 
wind  tossed  it. 

"You  know  me  now,  Frank — don't  you,  Frank? 
It  has  been  so  hard  to  come  and  see  you,  and  so  cold ! 
But  you  are  going  to  be  married  to-morrow,  Frank ; 
and  I  promised — oh,  a  long  time  ago — to  think  of 
you  when  you  were  going  to  be  married  wherever  I 
was,  and  I  have  kept  my  promise,  and  I  have  come 
from  where  I  am  and  brought  a  present  with  me. 
It  was  bitter  to  die  so  young!  I  was  so  young  to 
die  and  leave  you,  but  I  had  to  go.  Take  it — take 
it ;  be  quick,  I  cannot  stay  any  longer.  /  could  not 
give  you  my  life,  Frank,  so  I  have  brought  you  my 
death— take  it!" 

The  figure  thrust  the  basket  into  my  hand,  and 
as  it  did  so  the  rain  came  up  again,  and  began  to 
obscure  the  moonlight. 

"I  must  go,  I  must  go,"  went  on  the  dreadful, 
familiar  voice,  in  a  cry  of  despair.  "Oh,  why  were 
you  so  long  opening  the  door?  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you  before  you  married  Annie;  and  now  I  shall 
never  see  you  again — never!  never!  never!  I  have 
lost  you  for  ever !  ever !  ever!" 

As  the  last  wailing  notes  dies  away  the  wind  came 
down  with  a  rush  and  a  whirl  and  the  sweep  as  of  a 
thousand  wings,  and  threw  me  back  into  the  house, 
bringing  the  door  to  with  a  crash  after  me. 


ONLY  A  DREAM  233 

I  staggered  into  the  kitchen,  the  basket  in  my 
hand,  and  set  it  on  the  table.  Just  then  some  embers 
of  the  fire  fell  in,  and  a  faint  little  flame  rose  and 
glimmered  on  the  bright  dishes  on  the  dresser,  even 
revealing  a  tin  candlestick,  with  a  box  of  matches 
by  it.  I  was  well-nigh  mad  with  the  darkness  and 
fear,  and,  seizing  the  matches,  I  struck  one,  and  held 
it  to  the  candle.  Presently  it  caught,  and  I  glanced 
round  the  room.  It  was  just  as  usual,  just  as  the 
servants  had  left  it,  and  above  the  mantelpiece  the 
eight-day  clock  ticked  away  solemnly.  While  I 
looked  at  it  it  struck  two,  and  in  a  dim  fashion  I 
was  thankful  for  its  friendly  sound. 

Then  I  looked  at  the  basket.  It  was  of  very  fine 
white  plaited  work  with  black  bands  running  up  it, 
and  a  chequered  black-and-white  handle.  I  knew 
it  well.  I  have  never  seen  another  like  it.  I  bought 
it  years  ago  at  Medeira,  and  gave  it  to  my  poor 
wife.  Ultimately  it  was  washed  overboard  in  a  gale 
in  the  Irish  Channel.  I  remember  that  it  was  full  of 
newspapers  and  library  books,  and  I  had  to  pay  for 
them.  Many  and  many  is  the  time  that  I  have  seen 
that  identical  basket  standing  there  on  that  very 
kitchen  table,  for  my  dear  wife  always  used  it  to  put 
flowers  in,  and  the  shortest  cut  from  that  part  of  the 
garden  where  her  roses  grew  was  through  the 
kitchen.  She  used  to  gather  the  flowers,  and  then 
come  in  and  place  her  basket  on  the  table,  just  where 
it  stood  now,  and  order  the  dinner. 

All  this  passed  through  my  mind  in  a  few  seconds 
as  I  stood  there  with  the  candle  in  my  hand,  feeling 
indeed  half  dead,  and  yet  with  my  mind  painfully 


234  ONLY  A  DREAM 

alive.  I  Degan  to  wonder  if  I  had  gone  asleep,  and 
was  the  victim  of  a  nightmare.  No  such  thing.  I 
wish  it  had  only  been  a  nightmare.  A  mouse  ran 
out  along  the  dresser  and  jumped  on  to  the  floor, 
making  quite  a  crash  in  the  silence. 

What  was  in  the  basket?  I  feared  to  look,  and 
yet  some  power  within  me  forced  me  to  it.  I  drew 
near  to  the  table  and  stood  for  a  moment  listening 
to  the  sound  of  my  own  heart.  Then  I  stretched  out 
,my  hand  and  slowly  raised  the  lid  of  the  basket. 

"I  could  not  give  you  my  life,  so  I  have  brought 
you  my  death!"  Those  were  her  words.  What 
could  she  mean — what  could  it  all  mean?  I  must 
know  or  I  should  go  mad.  There  it  lay,  whatever 
it  was,  wrapped  up  in  linen. 

Ah,  heaven  help /me!  It  was  a  small  bleached 
human  skull ! 

A  dream!  After  all,  only  a  dream  by  the  fire, 
but  what  a  dream.  And  I  am  to  be  married 
to-morrow. 

Can  I  be  married  to-morrow  ?. 


Barbara  Who  Came  Back 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  RECTORY  BLIND 

THIS  is  the  tale  of  Barbara,  Barbara  who  came  back 
to  save  a  soul  alive. 

The  Reverend  Septimus  Walrond  was  returning 
from  a  professional  visit  to  a  distant  cottage  of  his 
remote  and  straggling  parish  upon  the  coast  of  East 
Anglia.  His  errand  had  been  sad,  to  baptise  the 
dying  infant  of  a  fisherman,  which  just  as  the  rite 
was  finished  wailed  once  feebly  and  expired  in  his 
arms.  The  Reverend  Septimus  was  weeping  over 
the  sorrows  of  the  world.  Tears  ran  down  his  white 
but  rounded  face,  for  he  was  stout  of  habit,  and  fell 
upon  his  clerical  coat  that  was  green  with  age  and 
threadbare  with  use.  Although  the  evening  was  so 
cold  he  held  his  broad-brimmed  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
the  wind  from  the  moaning  sea  tossed  his  snow- 
white  hair.  He  was  talking  to  himself,  as  was  his 
fashion  on  these  lonely  walks. 

"I  think  that  fresh  milk  would  have  saved  that 
child,"  he  said,  "but  how  was  poor  Thomas  to  buy 
fresh  milk  at  f ourpence  a  quart  ?  Laid  up  for  three 

235 


236       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

months  as  he  has  been  and  with  six  children,  how 
was  he  to  buy  fresh  milk?  I  ought  to  have  given  it 
to  him.  I  could  have  done  without  these  new  boots 
till  spring,  damp  feet  don't  matter  to  an  old  man. 
But  I  thought  of  my  own  comfort — the  sin  that  doth 
so  easily  beset  me — and  so  many  to  clothe  and  feed 
at  home  and  poor  Barbara,  my  darling  Barbara, 
hanging  between  life  and  death." 

He  sobbed  and  wiped  away  his  tears  with  the  back 
of  his  hand,  then  began  to  pray,  still  aloud. 

"O  God  of  pity,  in  the  name  of  the  loving  and 
merciful  Christ,  help  me  and  poor  Thomas  in  our 
troubles." 

"I  ought  to  have  put  Thomas's  name  first — my 
selfishness  again,"  he  ejaculated,  then  went  on : 

"Give  consolation  to  Thomas  who  loved  his  baby, 
and  if  it  pleases  Thee  in  Thy  infinite  wisdom  and 
foresight,  spare  my  dearest  Barbara's  life,  that  she 
may  live  out  her  days  upon  the  earth  and  perhaps 
in  her  turn  give  life  to  others.  I  know  I  should  not 
ask  it ;  I  know  it  is  better  that  she  should  go  and  be 
with  Thee  in  the  immortal  home  Thou  hast  prepared 
for  us  unhappy,  suffering  creatures.  Yet — pity  my 
poor  human  weakness — I  do  ask  it.  Or  if  Thou 
decreest  otherwise,  then  take  me  also,  O  God,  for  I 
can  bear  no  more.  Four  children  gone !  I  can  bear 
no  more,  O  God." 

He  sobbed  again  and  wiped  away  another  tear, 
then  muttered : 

"My  selfishness,  always  my  selfishness!  With"  six 
remaining  to  be  looked  after,  that  is  counting 
Barbara  if  she  still  lives,  I  dare  to  ask  to  be  relieved 


THE  RECTORY  BLIND  237 

of  the  burdens  of  the  flesh !  Pitiful  Christ,  visit  not 
my  wickedness  on  me  or  on  others,  and  O  Thou 
that  didst  raise  the  daughter  of  Jairus,  save  my 
sweet  Barbara  and  comfort  the  heart  of  poor 
Thomas.  I  will  have  faith.  I  will  have  faith." 

He  thrust  his  hat  upon  his  head,  pulling  it  down 
over  his  ears  because  of  the  rough  wind,  and 
walked  forward  quite  jauntily  for  a  few  yards. 

"What  a  comfort  these  new  boots  are,"  he  said. 
"If  I  had  stepped  into  that  pool  with  the  old  ones 
my  left  foot  would  be  wet  through  now.  Let  me 
thank  God  for  these  new  boots.  Oh!  how  can  I, 
when  I  remember  that  the  price  of  them  should  have 
been  spent  in  milk  for  the  poor  baby?  If  I  were 
really  a  Christian  I  ought  to  take  them  off  and  walk 
barefoot,  as  the  old  pilgrims  used  to  do.  They 
say  it  is  healthy,  and  I  tried  to  think  so  because  it  is 
cheap,  though  I  am  sure  that  this  was  the  beginning 
of  poor  little  Cicely's  last  illness.  With  her  broken 
chilblains  she  could  not  stand  the  snow ;  at  any  rate, 
the  chill  struck  upwards.  Well,  she  has  been  in  bliss 
three  years,  three  whole  years,  and  how  thankful  I 
ought  to  be  for  that.  How  glad  she  will  be  to  see 
Barbara  too,  if  it  pleases  God  in  His  mercy  to  take 
Barbara;  she  always  was  her  favourite  sister.  I 
ought  to  remember  that;  I  ought  to  remember  that 
what  I  lose  here  I  gain  there,  that  my  store  is  always 
growing  in  Heaven.  But  I  can't,  for  I  am  a  man 
still.  Oh !  curse  it  all !  I  can't,  and  like  Job  I  wish 
I'd  never  been  born.  Job  got  a  new  family  and  was 
content,  but  that's  their  Eastern  way.  It's  different 
with  us  Englishmen." 


238       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

He  stumbled  on  for  a  hundred  yards  or  more, 
vacuously,  almost  drunkenly,  for  the  hideous  agony 
that  he  was  enduring  half  paralysed  his  brain,  and 
by  its  very  excess  was  bringing  him  some  temporary 
relief.  He  looked  at  the  raging  sea  to  his  right,  and 
in  a  vague  fashion  wished  that  it  had  swallowed  him. 
He  looked  at  the  kind  earth  of  the  ploughed  field  to 
his  left,  and  wished  vividly,  for  the  idea  was  more 
familiar,  that  six  feet  of  it  lay  above  him.  Then  he 
remembered  that  just  beyond  that  sand-heap  he  had 
found  a  plover's  nest  with  two  eggs  in  it  fifty  years 
ago  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  had  taken  one  egg  and 
left  the  other,  or  rather  had  restored  it  because  the 
old  bird  screamed  so  pitifully  about  him.  In  some 
strange  manner  that  little,  long-forgotten  act  of 
righteousness  brought  a  glow  of  comfort  to  his  tor- 
mented spirit.  Perhaps  God  would  deal  so  by  him. 

In  its  way  the  evening  was  very  beautiful.  The 
cold  November  day  was  dying  into  night.  Clear, 
clear  was  the  sky  save  for  some  black  and  heavy 
snow  clouds  that  floated  on  it  driven  before  the 
easterly  wind  that  piped  through  the  sere  grasses  and 
blew  the  plovers  over  him  as  though  they  were  dead 
leaves.  Where  the  sun  had  vanished  long  bars  of 
purple  lay  above  the  horizon;  to  his  excited  fancy 
they  looked  like  the  gateway  of  another  and  a  better 
world,  set,  as  the  old  Egyptians  dreamed,  above  the 
uttermost  pylons  of  the  West.  What  lay  there 
beyond  the  sun?  Oh!  what  lay  beyond  the  sun? 
Perhaps,  even  now,  Barbara  knew ! 

A  figure  appeared  standing  upon  a  sand  dune  be- 
tween the  pathway  and  the  sea.  Septimus  was 


THE  RECTORY  BLIND  239 

short-sighted  and  could  not  tell  who  it  was,  but  in 
this  place  at  this  hour  doubtless  it  must  be  a 
parishioner,  perhaps  one  waiting  to  see  him  upon 
some  important  matter.  He  must  forget  his  private 
griefs.  He  must  strive  to  steady  his  shaken  mind 
and  attend  to  his  duties.  He  drew  himself  together 
and  walked  on  briskly. 

"I  wish  I  had  not  been  obliged  to  give  away  Jack," 
he  said.  "He  was  a  great  companion,  and  somehow 
I  always  met  people  with  more  confidence  when  he 
was  with  me;  he  seemed  to  take  away  my  shyness. 
But  the  licence  was  seven-and-sixpence,  and  I 
haven't  got  seven-and-sixpence;  also  he  has  an  ex- 
cellent home  with  that  stuffy  old  woman,  if  a  dull 
one,  for  he  must  miss  his  walk.  Oh!  it's  you, 
Anthony.  What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  of 
night  ?  Your  father  told  me  you  had  a  bad  cold  and 
there's  so  much  sickness  about.  You  should  be 
careful,  Anthony,  you  know  you're  not  strong,  none 
of  you  Arnotts  are.  Well,  I  suppose  you  are  shoot- 
ing, and  most  young  men  will  risk  a  great  deal  in 
order  to  kill  God's  other  creatures." 

The  person  addressed,  a  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
rather  pale  young  man  of  about  twenty-one,  remark- 
able for  his  large  brown  eyes  and  a  certain  sweet 
expression  which  contrasted  somewhat  oddly  with 
the  general  manliness  of  his  appearance,  lifted  his 
cap  and  answered : 

"No,  Mr.  Walrond,  I  am  not  shooting  to-night. 
In  fact,  I  was  waiting  here  to  meet  you." 

"What  for,  Anthony?  Nothing  wrong  up  at  the 
Hall,  I  hope." 


240       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"No,  Mr.  Walrond ;  why  should  there  be  anything 
wrong  there?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,  only  as  a  rule  people 
don't  wait  for  the  parson  unless  there  is  something 
amiss,  and  there  seems  to  be  so  much  misfortune  in 
this  parish  just  now.  Well,  what  is  it,  my  boy?" 

"I  want  to  know  about  Barbara,  Mr.  Walrond. 
They  tell  me  she  is  very  bad,  but  I  can't  get  any- 
thing definite  from  the  others,  I  mean  from  her 
sisters.  They  don't  seem  to  be  sure,  and  the  doctor 
wouldn't  say  when  I  asked  him." 

The  Reverend  Septimus  looked  at  Anthony  and 
Anthony  looked  at  the  Reverend  Septimus,  and  in 
that  look  they  learned  to  understand  each  other.  The 
agony  that  was  eating  out  this  poor  father's  heart 
was  not  peculiar  to  him ;  another  shared  it.  In  what 
he  would  have  called  his  "wicked  selfishness"  the 
Reverend  Septimus  felt  almost  grateful  for  this  sud- 
den revelation.  If  it  is  a  comfort  to  share  our  joys, 
it  is  a  still  greater  comfort  to  share  our  torments. 

"Walk  on  with  me,  Anthony,"  he  said.  "I  must 
hurry,  I  have  every  reason  to  hurry.  Had  it  not 
been  a  matter  of  duty  I  would  not  have  left  the  house, 
but,  so  to  speak,  a  clergyman  has  many  children;  he 
cannot  prefer  one  before  the  other." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Anthony,  "but  what  about 
Barbara?  Oh!  please  tell  me  at  once." 

"I  can't  tell  you,  Anthony,  because  I  don't  know. 
From  here  to  the  crest  of  Gunter's  Hill,"  and  he 
pointed  to  an  eminence  in  front  of  them,  "is  a  mile 
and  a  quarter.  When  we  get  to  the  crest  of  Gunter's 
Hill  perhaps  we  shall  know.  I  left  home  two  hours 


THE  RECTORY  BLIND  241 

ago,  and  then  Barbara  lay  almost  at  the  point  of 
death;  insensible." 

"Insensible,"  muttered  Anthony.  "Oh !  my  God, 
insensible." 

"Yes,"  went  on  the  clergyman  in  a  voice  of 
patient  resignation.  "I  don't  understand  much  about 
such  things,  but  the  inflammation  appears  to  have 
culminated  that  way.  Now  either  she  will  never 
wake  again,  or  if  she  wakes  she  may  live.  At  least 
that  is  what  they  tell  me,  but  they  may  be  wrong. 
I  have  so  often  known  doctors  to  be  wrong." 

They  walked  on  together  in  silence  twenty  yards 
or  more.  Then  he  added  as  though  speaking  to 
himself : 

"When  we  reach  the  top  of  Gunter's  Hill  perhaps 
we  shall  learn.  We  can  see  her  window  from  there, 
and  if  she  had  passed  away  I  bade  them  pull  the 
blind  down ;  if  she  was  about  the  same,  to  pull  it 
half  down ;  and  if  she  were  really  better,  to  leave  it 
quite  up.  I  have  done  that  for  two  nights  now,  so 
that  I  might  have  a  little  time  to  prepare  myself. 
It  is  a  good  plan,  though  very  trying  to  a  father's 
heart.  Yesterday  I  stood  for  quite  a  while  with  my 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  not  daring  to  look  and 
learn  the  truth." 

Anthony  groaned,  and  once  more  the  old  man 
went  on: 

"She  is  a  very  unselfish  girl,  Barbara,  or  perhaps 
I  should  say  was,  perhaps  I  should  say  was.  That 
is  how  she  caught  this  horrible  inflammation.  Three 
weeks  ago  she  and  her  sister  Janey  went  for  a  long 
walk  to  the  Ness,  to — to — oh!  I  forget  why  they 


242       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

went.  Well,  it  came  on  to  pour  with  rain ;  and  just 
as  they  had  started  for  home,  fortunately,  or  rather 
unfortunately,  old  Stevens  the  farmer  overtook  them 
on  his  way  back  from  market  and  offered  them  a  lift. 
They  got  into  the  cart  and  Barbara  took  off  the 
mackintosh  that  her  aunt  gave  her  last  Christmas — 
it  is  the  only  one  in  the  house,  since  such  things  are 
too  costly  for  me  to  buy — and  put  it  over  Janey,  who 
had  a  cold.  It  was  quite  unnecessary,  for  Janey  was 
warmly  wrapped  up,  while  Barbara  had  nothing 
under  the  mackintosh  except  a  summer  dress.  That 
is  how  she  caught  the  chill." 

Anthony  made  no  comment,  and  again  they 
walked  forward  without  speaking,  perhaps  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile.  Then  the  horror  of  the  suspense 
became  intolerable  to  him.  Without  a  word  he 
dashed  forward,  sped  down  the  slope  and  up  that  of 
the  opposing  Gunter's  Hill,  more  swiftly  perhaps 
than  he  had  ever  run  before,  although  he  was  a  very 
quick  runner. 

"He's  gone,"  murmured  Septimus.  "I  wonder 
why !  I  suppose  that  I  walk  too  slowly  for  him.  I 
cannot  walk  so  fast  as  I  used  to  do,  and  he  felt  the 
wind  cold." 

Then  he  dismissed  the  matter  from  his  half-dazed 
mind  and  stumbled  on  wearily,  muttering  his  dis- 
jointed prayers. 

Thus  in  due  course  he  began  to  climb  the  little 
slope  of  Gunter's  Hill.  The  sun  had  set,  but  there 
was  still  a  red  glow  in  the  sky,  and  against  this  glow 
he  perceived  the  tall  figure  of  Anthony  standing 
quite  still.  When  he  was  about  a  hundred  yards 


THE  RECTORY  BLIND  243 

away  the  figure  suddenly  collapsed,  as  a  man  does 
if  he  is  shot.  The  Reverend  Septimus  put  his  hand 
to  his  heart  and  caught  his  breath. 

"I  know  what  that  means,"  he  said.  "He  was 
watching  the  window,  and  they  have  just  pulled 
down  the  blind.  I  suppose  he  must  be  fond  of  her 
and  it — affects  him.  Oh !  if  I  were  younger  I  think 
this  would  kill  me,  but,  thank  God!  as  one  draws 
near  the  end  of  the  road  the  feet  harden;  one  does 
not  feel  the  thorns  so  much.  'The  Lord  gave  and 
the  Lord  hath  taken  away,  bl — bl — yes,  I  will  say 
it — blessed  be  the  Name  of  the  Lord/  I  should 
remember  that  she  is  so  much  better  where  she  is; 
that  this  is  a  very  hard  world ;  indeed,  sometimes  I 
think  it  is  not  a  world,  but  a  hell.  Oh !  Barbara,  my 
sweet  Barbara!"  and  he  struggled  forward  blindly 
beating  at  the  rough  wind  with  his  hands  as  though 
it  were  a  visible  foe,  and  so  at  last  came  to  the  crest 
of  the  hill  where  Anthony  Arnott  lay  prone  upon  his 
face. 

So  sure  was  Septimus  of  the  cause  of  his  collapse 
that  he  did  not  even  trouble  to  look  at  the  Rectory 
windows  in  the  hollow  near  the  church  two  hundred 
yards  or  so  away.  He  only  looked  at  Anthony, 
saying: 

"Poor  lad,  poor  lad !  I  wonder  how  I  shall  get 
him  home;  I  must  fetch  some  help." 

As  he  spoke,  Anthony  sat  up  and  said,  "You  see, 
you  see !" 

"See  what?" 

"The  blind ;  it  is  quite  up.  When  I  got  here  it 
was  half  down,  then  someone  pulled  it  up.  That's 


244       BARBARA  WHO.  CAME  BACK 

what  finished  me.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  been  hit 
on  the  head  with  a  stick." 

The  Reverend  Septimus  stared,  then  suddenly 
sank  to  his  knees  and  returned  thanks  in  his  simple 
fashion. 

"Don't  let  us  be  too  certain,  Anthony,"  he  ex- 
claimed at  length.  "There  may  be  a  mistake,  or 
perhaps  this  is  only  a  respite  which  will  prolong  the 
suspense.  Often  such  things  happen  to  torment 
us;  I  mean  that  they  are  God's  way  of  trying  and 
purifying  our  poor  sinful  hearts." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  NEW  YEAR  FEAST 

BARBARA  did  not  die.  On  the  contrary,  Barbara 
got  quite  well  again,  but  her  recovery  was  so  slow 
that  Anthony  only  saw  her  once  before  he  was 
obliged  to  return  to  college.  This  was  on  New 
Year's  Day,  when  Mr.  Walrond  asked  him  to  dinner 
to  meet  Barbara,  who  was  coming  down  for  the  first 
time.  Needless  to  say  he  went,  taking  with  him  a 
large  bunch  of  violets  which  he  had  grown  in  a 
frame  at  the  Hall  especially  for  Barbara.  Indeed, 
she  had  already  received  many  of  those  violets 
through  the  agency  of  her  numerous  younger  sisters. 
The  Rectory  dinner  was  at  one  o'clock,  and  the 
feast  could  not  be  called  sumptuous.  It  consisted 
of  a  piece  of  beef,  that  known  as  the  "aitch-bone," 
which  is  perhaps  the  cheapest  that  the  butcher  sup- 


THE  NEW  YEAR  FEAST  245 

plies  when  the  amount  of  eating  on  it  is  taken  into 
consideration;  one  roast  duck,  a  large  Pekin,  the 
New  Year  offering  of  the  farmer  Stevens;  and  a 
plum  pudding  somewhat  pallid  in  appearance.  These 
dainties  with  late  apples  and  plenty  of  cold  water 
made  up  the  best  dinner  that  the  Walrond  family 
had  eaten  for  many  a  day. 

The  Rectory  dining-room  was  a  long,  narrow 
chamber  of  dilapidated  appearance,  since  between 
meals  it  served  as  a  schoolroom  also.  A  deal  book- 
case in  the  corner  held  some  tattered  educational 
works,  and  the  walls  that  once  had  been  painted  blue, 
but  now  were  faded  in  patches  to  a  sickly  green, 
were  adorned  only  with  four  texts  illuminated  by 
Barbara.  These  texts  had  evidently  served  as  tar- 
gets for  moistened  paper  pellets,  some  of  which  still 
stuck  upon  their  surface. 

Anthony  arrived  a  little  late,  since  the  picking  of 
the  violets  had  taken  longer  than  he  anticipated,  and 
as  there  was  no  one  to  open  the  front  door,  walked 
straight  into  the  dining-room.  In  the  doorway  he 
collided  with  the  little  maid-of-all-work,  a  red- 
elbowed  girl  of  singularly  plain  appearance,  who 
having  deposited  the  beef  upon  the  table,  was  rush- 
ing back  for  the  duck,  accompanied  by  two  of  the 
young  Walronds  who  were  assisting  with  the  vege- 
tables. The  maid,  recoiling,  sat  down  with  a  bump 
on  one  of  the  wooden  chairs  and  the  Walrond  girls, 
a  merry,  good-looking,  unkempt  crew  (no  boy  had 
put  in  an  appearance  in  all  that  family),  burst  into 
screams  of  laughter.  Anthony  apologised  profusely; 
the  maid,  ejaculating  that  she  didn't  mind,  not  she, 


246       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

jumped  up  and  ran  for  the  duck;  and  the  Reverend 
Septimus,  a  very  different  Septimus  to  him  whom 
we  met  a  month  or  so  before,  seizing  his  hand,  shook 
it  warmly,  calling  out : 

"Julia,  my  dear,  never  mind  that  beef,  I  haven't 
said  grace  yet.  Here's  Anthony." 

"Glad  to  see  him,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Walrond, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  beef,  which  was  ob- 
viously burnt  at  one  corner.  Then  with  a  shrug,  for 
she  was  accustomed  to  such  accidents,  she  rose  to 
greet  him. 

Mrs.  Walrond  was  a  tall  and  extremely  good- 
looking  lady  of  about  fifty-five,  dark-eyed  and  bright 
complexioned,  whose  chestnut  hair  was  scarcely 
touched  with  grey.  Notwithstanding  all  the  troubles 
and  hardships  that  she  had  endured,  her  countenance 
was  serene  and  even  happy,  for  she  was  blessed  with 
a  good  heart,  a  lively  faith  in  Providence,  and  a 
well-regulated  mind.  Looking  at  her,  it  was  easy 
to  see  whence  Barbara  and  her  other  daughters  in- 
herited their  beauty  and  air  of  breeding. 

"How  are  you,  Anthony?"  she  went  on,  one  eye 
still  fixed  upon  the  burnt  beef.  "It  is  good  of  you 
to  come,  though  you  are  late,  which  I  suppose  is 
why  that  girl  has  burnt  the  meat." 

"Not  a  bit,"  called  out  one  of  the  children,  it  was 
Janey,  "it  is  very  good  of  us  to  have  him  when 
there's  only  one  duck.  Anthony,  you  mustn't  eat 
duck,  as  we  don't  often  get  one  and  you  have 
hundreds." 

"Not  I,  dear,  I  hate  ducks,"  he  replied  automati- 
cally, for  his  eyes  were  seeking  the  face  of  Barbara. 


THE  NEW  YEAR  FEAST  247 

Barbara  was  seated  in  the  wooden  armchair  with 
a  cushion  in  it,  near  the  fire  of  driftwood,  advantages 
that  were  accorded  to  her  in  honour  of  her  still  being 
an  invalid.  Even  to  a  stranger  she  would  have 
looked  extraordinarily  sweet  with  her  large  and 
rather  plaintive  violet  eyes  over  which  the  long 
black  lashes  curved,  her  waving  chestnut  hair  parted 
in  the  middle  and  growing  somewhat  low  upon  her 
forehead,  her  tall  figure,  very  thin  just  now,  and  her 
lovely  shell-like  complexion  heightened  by  a  blush. 

To  Anthony  she  seemed  a  very  angel,  an  angel 
returned  from  the  shores  of  death  for  his  adoration 
and  delight.  Oh !  if  things  had  gone  the  other  way 
— if  there  had  been  no  sweet  Barbara  seated  in  that 
wooden  chair!  The  thought  gripped  his  heart  with 
a  hand  of  ice ;  he  felt  as  he  had  felt  when  he  looked 
at  the  window-place  from  the  crest  of  Gunter's  Hill. 
But  she  had  come  back,  and  he  was  sure  that  they 
were  each  other's  for  life.  And  yet,  and  yet,  life 
must  end  one  day  and  then,  what  ?  Once  more  that 
hand  of  ice  dragged  at  his  heart-strings. 

In  a  moment  it  was  all  over  and  Mr.  Walrond  was 
speaking. 

"Why  don't  you  bid  Barbara  good-day, 
Anthony?"  he  asked.  "Don't  you  think  she  looks 
well,  considering?  We  do,  better  than  you,  in  fact," 
he  added,  glancing  at  his  face,  which  had  suddenly 
grown  pale,  almost  grey. 

"He's  going  to  give  Barbara  the  violets  and 
doesn't  know  how  to  do  it,"  piped  the  irrepressible 
Janey.  "Anthony,  why  don't  you  ever  bring  us 
violets,  even  when  we  have  the  whooping  cough?" 


248       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"Because  the  smell  of  them  is  bad  for  delicate 
throats,"  he  answered,  and  without  a  word  handed 
the  sweet-scented  flowers  to  Barbara. 

She  took  them,  also  without  a  word,  but  not  with- 
out a  look,  pinned  a  few  to  her  dress,  and  reaching  a 
cracked  vase  from  the  mantelpiece,  disposed  of  the 
rest  of  them  there  till  she  could  remove  them  to  her 
own  room.  Then  Mr.  Walrond  began  to  say  grace 
and  the  difficulties  of  that  meeting  were  over. 

Anthony  sat  by  Barbara.  His  chair  was  rickety, 
one  of  the  legs  being  much  in  need  of  repair;  the 
driftwood  fire  that  burned  brightly  about  two  feet 
away  grilled  his  spine,  for  no  screen  was  available, 
and  he  nearly  choked  himself  with  a  piece  of  very 
hot  and  hard  potato.  Yet  to  tell  the  truth  never 
before  did  he  share  in  such  a  delightful  meal.  For 
soon,  when  the  clamour  of  "the  girls"  swelled  loud 
and  long,  and  the  attention  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wal- 
rond was  entirely  occupied  with  the  burnt  beef  and 
the  large  duck  that  absolutely  refused  to  part  with 
its  limbs,  he  found  himself  almost  as  much  alone 
with  Barbara  as  though  they  had  been  together  on 
the  wide  seashore. 

"You  are  really  getting  quite  well?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  think  so."  Then,  after  a  pause  and  with 
a  glance  from  the  violet  eyes,  "Are  you  glad  ?" 

"You  know  I  am  glad.  You  know  that  if  you 
had — died,  I  should  have  died  too." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  curved  lips,  but  they 
trembled  and  the  violet  eyes  were  a-swim  with  tears. 
Then  a  little  catch  of  the  throat,  and,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  "Anthony,  father  told  me  about  you  and 


THE  NEW  YEAR  FEAST  249 

the  window-blind  and — oh!  I  don't  know  how  to 
thank  you.  But  I  want  to  say  something,  if  you 
won't  laugh.  Just  at  that  time  I  seemed  to  come  up 
out  of  some  blackness  and  began  to  dream  of  you. 
I  dreamed  that  I  was  sinking  back  into  the  black- 
ness, but  you  caught  me  by  the  hand  and  lifted  me 
quite  out  of  it.  Then  we  floated  away  together  for 
ever  and  for  ever  and  for  ever,  for  though  sometimes 
I  lost  you  we  always  met  again.  Then  I  woke  up 
and  knew  that  I  wasn't  going  to  die,  that's  all." 

"What  a  beautiful  dream,"  began  Anthony,  but 
at  that  moment,  pausing  from  her  labours  at  the 
beef,  Mrs.  Walrond  said : 

"Barbara,  eat  your  duck  before  it  grows  cold. 
You  know  the  doctor  said  you  must  take  plenty  of 
nourishment." 

"I  am  going  to,  mother,"  answered  Barbara,  '"I 
feel  dreadfully  hungry,"  and  really  she  did;  her 
gentle  heart  having  fed  full,  of  a  sudden  her  body 
seemed  to  need  nourishment. 

"Dear  me !"  said  Mr.  Walrond,  pausing  from  his 
labours  and  viewing  the  remains  of  the  duck  dis- 
consolately, for  he  did  not  see  what  portion  of  its 
gaunt  skeleton  was  going  to  furnish  him  with  din- 
ner, and  duck  was  one  of  his  weaknesses,  "dear  me, 
there's  a  dreadful  smell  of  burning  in  this  room.  Do 
you  thing  it  can  be  the  beef,  my  love  ?" 

"Of  course  it  is  not  the  beef,"  replied  Mrs.  Wal- 
rond rather  sharply.  "The  beef  is  beautifully  done." 

"Oh !"  ejaculated  one  of  the  girls  who  had  got  the 
calcined  bit,  "why,  mother,  you  said  it  was  burnt 
yourself." 


250       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"Never  mind  what  I  said/'  replied  Mrs.  Walrond 
severely,  "especially  as  I  was*  mistaken.  It  is  very 
rude  of  your  father  to  make  remarks  about  the 
meat." 

"Well,  something  is  burning,  my  love." 

Janey,  who  was  sitting  next  to  Anthony,  paused 
from  her  meal  to  sniff,  then  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of 
delight : 

"Oh!  it  is  Anthony's  coat  tails.  Just  look,  they 
are  turning  quite  brown.  Why,  Anthony,  you  must 
be  as  beautifully  done  as  the  beef.  If  you  can  sit 
there  and  say  nothing,  you  are  a  Christian  martyr 
wasted,  that's  all." 

Anthony  sprang  up,  murmuring  that  he  thought 
there  was  something  wrong  behind,  which  on  exam- 
ination there  proved  to  be.  The  end  of  it  was  that 
the  chairs  were  all  pushed  downwards,  with  the 
result  that  for  the  rest  of  that  meal  there  was  a  fiery 
gulf  between  him  and  Barbara  which  made  further 
confidences  impossible.  So  he  had  to  talk  of  other 
matters.  Of  these,  as  it  chanced,  he  had  something 
to  say. 

A  letter  had  arrived  that  morning  from  his  elder 
brother  George,  who  was  an  officer  in  a  line  regi- 
ment. It  had  been  written  in  the  trenches  before 
Sebastopol,  for  these  events  took  place  in  the  mid- 
Victorian  period  towards  the  end  of  the  Crimean 
War.  Or  rather  the  letter  had  been  begun  in  the 
trenches  and  finished  in  the  military  hospital,  whither 
George  had  been  conveyed,  suffering  from  "fever 
and  severe  chill,"  which  seemed  to  be  somewhat 
contradictory  terms,  though  doubtless  they  were  in 


THE  NEW  YEAR  FEAST  251 

fact  compatible  enough.  Still  he  wrote  a  very  inter- 
esting letter,  which,  after  the  pudding  had  been  con- 
sumed to  the  last  spoonful,  Anthony  read  aloud  while 
the  girls  ate  apples  and  cracked  nuts  with  their  teeth. 

"Dear  me !  George  seems  to  be  very  unwell,"  said 
Mrs.  Walrond. 

"Yes,"  answered  Anthony,  "I  am  afraid  he  is. 
One  of  the  medical  officers  whom  my  father  knows, 
who  is  working  in  that  hospital,  says  they  mean  to 
send  him  home  as  soon  as  he  can  bear  the  journey, 
though  he  doesn't  think  it  will  be  just  at  present." 

This  sounded  depressing,  but  Mr.  Walrond  found 
that  it  had  a  bright  side. 

"At  any  rate,  he  won't  be  shot  like  so  many  poor 
fellows ;  also  he  has  been  in  several  of  the  big  battles 
and  will  be  promoted.  I  look  upon  him  as  a  made 
man.  He'll  soon  shake  off  his  cold  in  his  native 
air—" 

"And  we  shall  have  a  real  wounded  hero  in  the 
village,"  said  one  of  the  girls. 

"He  isn't  a  wounded  hero,"  answered  Janey,  "he's 
only  got  a  chill." 

"Well,  that's  as  bad  as  a  wound  dear,  and  I  am 
sure  he  would  have  been  wounded  if  he  could." 
And  so  on. 

"When  are  you  going  back  to  Cambridge,  An- 
thony?" asked  Mrs.  Walrond  presently. 

"To-morrow  morning,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  he  an- 
swered, and  Barbara's  face  fell  at  the  words.  "You 
see,  I  go  up  for  my  degree  this  summer  term,  and 
my  father  is  very  anxious  that  I  should  take  high 
•honours  in  mathematics.  He  says  that  it  will  give 


252       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

me  a  better  standing  at  the  Bar.  So  I  must  begin 
work  at  once  with  a  tutor  before  term,  for  there's 
no  one  near  here  who  can  help  me." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Walrond.  "If  it  had  been  classics 
now,  with  a  little  furbishing  perhaps  I  might.  But 
mathematics  are  beyond  me." 

"Barbara  should  teach  him,"  suggested  one  of  the 
little  girls  shyly.  "She's  splendid  at  Rule  of  Three." 

"Which  is  more  than  you  are,  said  Mrs.  Walrond 
in  severe  tones,  "who  always  make  thirteen  out  of 
five  and  seven.  Barbara,  love,  you  are  looking  very 
tired.  All  this  noise  is  too  much  for  you,  you  must 
go  and  lie  down  at  once  in  your  own  room.  No,  not 
on  the  sofa,  in  your  own  room.  Now  say  good-bye 
to  Anthony  and  go." 

So  Barbara,  who  was  really  tired,  though  with  a 
happy  weariness,  did  as  she  was  bid.  Her  hand  met 
Anthony's  and  lingered  there  for  a  little,  her  violet 
eyes  met  his  brown  eyes  and  lingered  there  a  little; 
her  lips  spoke  some  few  words  of  common-place 
farewell.  Then  staying  a  moment  to  take  the  violets 
from  the  cracked  vase,  and  another  moment  to  kiss 
her  father  as  she  passed  him,  she  walked,  or  rather 
glided  from  the  room  with  the  graceful  movement 
that  was  peculiar  to  her,  and  lo !  at  once  for  Anthony 
it  became  a  very  emptiness.  Moreover,  he  grew 
aware  of  the  hardness  of  his  wooden  seat  and  that 
the  noise  of  the  girls  was  making  his  head  ache.  So 
presently  he  too  rose  and  departed. 


AUNT  MARIA  253 


CHAPTER  III 

AUNT  MARIA 

Six  months  or  so  had  gone  by  and  summer  reigned 
royally  at  Eastwich,  for  thus  was  the  parish  named 
of  which  the  Reverend  Septimus  Walrond  had  spir- 
itual charge.  The  heath  was  a  blaze  of  gold,  the 
cut  hay  smelt  sweetly  in  the  fields,  the  sea  sparkled 
like  one  vast  sapphire,  the  larks  beneath  the  sun  and 
the  nightingales  beneath  the  moon  sang  their  hearts 
out  on  Gunter's  Hill  and  all  the  land  was  full  of  life 
and  sound  and  perfume. 

On  one  particularly  beautiful  evening,  after  par- 
taking of  a  meal  called  "high  tea,"  Barbara,  quite 
strong  again  now  and  blooming  like  the  wild  rose 
upon  her  breast,  set  out  alone  upon  a  walk.  Her 
errand  was  to  the  cottage  of  that  very  fisherman 
whose  child  her  father  had  baptised  on  the  night 
when  her  life  trembled  in  the  balance.  Having  ac- 
complished this  she  turned  homewards  lost  in  reverie, 
events  having  happened  at  the  Rectory  which  gave 
her  cause  for  thought.  When  she  had  gone  a  little 
way  some  instinct  led  her  to  look  up.  About  fifty 
yards  away  a  man  was  walking  towards  her  to  all 
appearance  also  lost  in  reverie.  Even  at  that  dis- 
tance and  in  the  uncertain  evening  light  she  knew 
well  enough  that  this  was  Anthony.  Her  heart  leapt 
at  the  sight  of  him  and  her  cheeks  seemed  to  catch 


254       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

the  hue  of  the  wild  rose  on  her  bosom.  Then  she 
straightened  her  dress  a  little  and  walked  on. 

In  less  than  a  minute  they  had  met. 

"I  heard  where  you  had  gone  and  came  to  meet 
you,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "How  well  you  are  look- 
ing, Barbara,  how  well  and "  he  had  meant  to 

add  "beautiful/'  but  his  tongue  stumbled  at  the  word 
and  what  he  said  was  "brown." 

"If  I  were  an  Indian  I  suppose  I  should  thank  you 
for  the  compliment,  Anthony,  but  as  it  is  I  don't 
know.  But  how  well  you  are  looking,  how  well  and 
by  comparison — fat." 

Then  they  both  laughed,  and  he  explained  at 
length  how  he  had  been  able  to  get  home  two  days 
earlier  than  he  expected ;  also  that  he  had  taken  his 
degree  with  even  higher  honours  than  he  hoped. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said  earnestly. 

"And  so  am  I;  I  mean  glad  that  you  are  glad. 
You  see,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  should  never 
have  done  so  well.  But  because  I  thought  you  would 
be  glad,  I  worked  like  anything." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  what  your  father 
would  feel,  not  of — of — well,  it  has  all  ended  as  it 
should,  so  we  needn't  argue.  How  is  your  brother 
George?"  she  went  on,  cutting  short  the  answer 
that  was  rising  to  his  lips.  "I  suppose  I  should  call 
him  Captain  Arnott  now,  for  I  hear  he  has  been 
promoted.  We  haven't  seen  him  since  he  came  home 
last  week,  from  some  hospital  in  the  South  of  Eng- 
land, they  say." 

Anthony's  face  grew  serious. 

"I  don't  know ;  I  don't  quite  like  the  look  of  him, 


AUNT  MARIA  255 

and  he  coughs  such  a  lot.  It  seems  as  though  he 
could  not  shake  off  that  chill  he  got  in  the  trenches. 
That's  why  he  hasn't  been  to  call  at  the  Rectory." 

"I  hope  this  beautiful  weather  will  cure  him,"  Bar- 
bara replied  rather  doubtfully,  for  she  had  heard  a 
bad  report  of  George  Arnott's  health.  Then  to 
change  the  subject  she  added,  "Do  you  know,  we 
had  a  visitor  yesterday,  Aunt  Maria  in  the  flesh,  in 
a  great  deal  of  flesh,  as  Janey  says." 

"Do  you  mean  Lady  Thompson?" 

She  nodded. 

"Aunt  Thompson  and  her  footman  and  her  pug 
dog.  Thank  goodness,  she  only  stayed  to  tea,  as  she 
had  a  ten  mile  drive  back  to  her  hotel.  As  it  was, 
lots  of  things  happened." 

"What  happened?" 

"Well,  first  when  she  got  out  of  the  carriage,  cov- 
ered with  jet  anchor  chains — for  you  know  Uncle 
Samuel  only  died  three  months  ago  and  left  her  all 
his  money — she  caught  sight  of  our  heads  staring  at 
her  out  of  the  drawing-room  window,  and  asked 
father  if  he  kept  a  girls'  school.  Then  she  made 
mother  cry  by  remarking  that  she  ought  to  be  thank- 
ful to  Providence  for  having  taken  to  its  bosom  the 
four  of  us  who  died  young — you  know  she  has  no 
children  herself  and  so  can't  feel  about  them.  Also 
father  was  furious  because  she  told  him  that  at 
least  half  of  us  should  have  been  boys.  He  turned 
quite  pink  and  said: 

"I  have  been  taught,  Lady  Thompson,  that  these 
are  matters  which  God  Almighty  keeps  in  His  own 
hands,  and  to  Him.  I  must  refer  you." 


256       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"Good  gracious !  don't  get  angry,"  she  answered. 
"If  you  clergymen  can  cross-examine  your  Maker, 
I  am  not  in  that  position.  Besides,  they  are  all  very 
good-looking  girls  who  may  find  husbands,  if 
they  ever  see  a  man.  So  things  might  have  been 
worse." 

"Then  she  made  remarks  about  the  tea,  for  Uncle 
Samuel  was  a  tea-merchant;  and  lastly  that  wicked 
Janey  sent  the  footman  to  take  the  pug  dog  to  walk 
past  the  butcher's  shop  where  the  fighting  terrier 
lives.  You  can  guess  the  rest." 

"Was  the  pug  killed  ?"  asked  Anthony. 

"No,  though  the  poor  thing  came  back  in  a  bad 
way.  I  never  knew  before  that  a  pug's  tail  was  so 
long  when  it  is  quite  uncurled.  But  the  footman 
looked  almost  worse,  for  he  got  notice  on  the  spot. 
You  see  he  went  into  the  'Red  Dragon'  and  left  the 
pug  outside." 

"And  here  endeth  Aunt  Maria  and  all  her  works," 
said  Anthony,  who  wanted  to  talk  of  other  things. 

"No,  not  quite." 

He  looked  at  her,  for  there  was  meaning  in  her 
voice. 

"In  fact,"  she  went  on,  "so  far  as  I'm  concerned 
it  ought  to  run,  'Here  beginneth  Aunt  Maria.'  You 
see,  I  have  got  to  go  and  live  with  her  to-morrow." 

Anthony  stopped  and  looked  at  her. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

"What  I  say.  She  took  a  fancy  to  me  and  she 
wants  a  companion — someone  to  do  her  errands  and 
read  to  her  at  night  and  look  after  the  pug  dog  and 
so  forth.  And  she  will  pay  me  thirty  pounds  a  year 


AUNT  MARIA  257 

with  my  board  and  dresses.  And'*  (with  gathering 
emphasis)  "we  cannot  afford  to  offend  her  who  have 
half  lived  upon  her  alms  and  old  clothes  for  so  many 
years.  And,  in  short,  Dad  and  my  mother  thought 
it  best  that  I  should  go,  since  Joyce  can  take  my 
place,  and  at  any  rate  it  will  be  a  mouth  less  to.  feed 
at  home.  So  I  am  going  to-morrow  morning  by  the 
carrier's  cart." 

"Going?"  gasped  Anthony.     "Where  to?" 

"To  London  first,  then  to  Paris,  then  to  Italy  to 
winter  at  Rome,  and  then  goodness  knows  where. 
You  see,  my  Aunt  Maria  has  wanted  to  travel  all 
her  life,  but  Uncle  Samuel,  who  was  born  in  Putney, 
feared  the  sea  and  lived  and  died  in  Putney  in  the 
very  house  in  which  he  was  born.  Now  Aunt  Maria 
wants  a  change  and  means  to  have  it." 

Then  Anthony  broke  out. 

"Damn  the  old  woman !  Why  can't  she  take  her 
change  in  Italy  or  wherever  she  wishes,  and  leave 
you  alone  ?" 

"Anthony!"  said  Barbara  in  a  scandalised  voice. 
"What  do  you  mean,  Anthony,  by  using  such  dread- 
ful language  about  my  aunt?" 

"What  do  I  mean?  Well"  (this  with  the  reckless- 
ness of  despair),  "if  you  want  to  know,  I  mean  that 
I  can't  bear  your  going  away." 

"If  my  parents,"  began  Barbara  steadily 

"What  have  your  parents  to  do  with  it  ?  I'm  not 
your  parents,  I'm  your 

Barbara  looked  at  him  in  remonstrance. 

" — old  friend,  played  together  in  childhood,  you 
know  the  kind  of  thing.  In  short,  I  don't  want  you 


258       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

to  go  to  Italy  with  Lady  Thompson.  I  want  you  to 
stop  here." 

"Why,  Anthony?  I  thought  you  told  me  you 
were  going  to  live  in  chambers  in  London  and  read 
for  the  Bar." 

"Well,  London  isn't  Italy,  and  one  doesn't  eat  din- 
ners at  Lincoln's  Inn  all  the  year  round,  one  comes 
home  sometimes.  And  heaven  knows  whom  you'll 
meet  in  those  places  or  what  tricks  that  hor- 
rible old  aunt  of  yours  will  be  playing  with  you.  Oh ! 
it's  wicked!  How  can  you  desert  your  poor  father 
and  mother  in  this  way,  to  say  nothing  of  your  sis- 
ters? I  never  thought  you  were  so  hard-hearted." 

"Anthony,"  said  Barbara  in  a  gentle  voice,  "do 
you  know  what  we  have  got  to  live  on?  In  good 
years  it  comes  to  about  £150,  but  once,  when  my 
father  got  into  that  lawsuit  over  the  dog  that  was 
supposed  to  kill  the  sheep,  it  went  down  to  £70.  That 
was  the  winter  when  two  of  the  little  ones  died  for 
want  of  proper  food — nothing  else — and  I  remem- 
ber that  the  rest  of  us  had  to  walk  barefoot  in  the 
mud  and  snow  because  there  was  no  money  to  buy  us 
boots,  and  only  some  of  us  could  go  out  at  once  be- 
cause we  had  no  cloaks  to  put  on.  Well,  all  this 
may  happen  again.  And  so,  Anthony,  do  you  think 
that  I  should  be  right  to  throw  away  thirty  pounds 
a  year  and  to  make  a  quarrel  with  my  aunt,  who  is 
rich  and  kind-hearted  although  very  over-bearing, 
and  the  only  friend  we  have?  If  my  father  died. 
Anthony,  or  even  was  taken  ill,  and  he  is  not  very 
strong,  what  would  become  of  us?  Unless  Aunt 
Thompson  chose  to  help  we  should  all  have  to  go  to 


AUNT  MARIA  259 

the  workhouse,  for  girls  who  have  not  been  specially 
trained  can  earn  nothing,  except  perhaps  as  domestic 
servants,  if  they  are  strong  enough.  I  don't  want 
to  go  away  and  read  to  Aunt  Maria  and  take  the 
pug  dog  out  walking,  although  it  is  true  I  should  like 
to  see  Italy,  but  I  must — can't  you  understand — I 
must.  So  please  reproach  me  no  more,  for  it  is  hard 
to  bear — especially  from  you." 

"Stop!  For  God's  sake,  stop!"  said  Anthony. 
"I  am  a  brute  to  have  spoken  like  that,  and  I'm 
helpless;  that's  the  worst  of  it.  Oh!  my  darling, 
don't  you  understand  ?  Don't  you  understand ?" 

"No,"  answered  Barbara,  shaking  her  head  and 
beginning  to  cry. 

"That  I  love  you,  that  I  have  always  loved  you, 
and  that  I  always  shall  love  you  until — until — the 
moon  ceases  to  shine?"  and  he  pointed  to  that  orb 
which  had  appeared  above  the  sea. 

"They  say  that  it  is  dead  already,  and  no  doubt 
will  come  to  an  end  like  everything  else,"  remarked 
Barbara,  seeking  to  gain  time. 

Then  for  a  while  she  sought  nothing  more,  who 
found  herself  lost  in  her  lover's  arms. 

So  there  they  plighted  their  troth,  that  was,  they 
swore,  more  enduring  than  the  moon,  for  indeed  they 
so  believed. 

"Nothing  shall  part  us  except  death,"  he  said. 

"Why  should  death  part  us  ?"  she  answered,  look- 
ing him  bravely  in  the  eyes.  "I  mean  to  live  beyond 
death,  and  while  I  live  and  wherever  I  live  death 
shall  not  part  us,  if  you'll  be  true  to  me." 


260       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 
"I'll  not  fail  in  that,"  he  answered. 

And  so  their  souls  melted  into  rapture  and  were 
lifted  up  beyond  the  world.  The  song  of  the  night- 
ingales was  heavenly  music  in  their  ears,  and  the 
moon's  silver  rays  upon  the  sea  were  the  road  by 
which  their  linked  souls  travelled  to  the  throne  of 
Him  who  had  lit  their  lamp  of  love,  and  there  made 
petition  that  through  all  life's  accidents  and  death's 
darkness  it  might  burn  eternally. 

For  the  love  of  these  two  was  deep  and  faithful, 
and  already  seemed  to  them  as  though  it  were  a  thing 
they  had  lost  awhile  and  found  once  more;  a  very 
precious  jewel  that  from  the  beginning  had  shone 
upon  their  breasts;  a  guiding-star  to  light  them  to 
that  end  which  is  the  dawn  of  Endlessness. 

Who  will  not  smile  at  such  thoughts  as  these? 

The  way  of  the  man  with  the  maid  and  the  way  of 
the  maid  with  the  man  and  the  moon  to  light  them 
and  the  birds  to  sing  the  epithalamium  of  their  hearts 
and  the  great  sea  to  murmur  of  eternity  in  their 
opened  ears.  Nature  at  her  sweet  work  beneath  the 
gentle  night — who  is  there  that  will  not  say  that  it 
was  nothing  more  ? 

Well,  let  their  story  answer. 


'A  YEAR  LATER  261 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  YEAR  LATER 

SOMETHING  over  a  year  had  gone  by,  and  Barbara, 
returned  from  her  foreign  travels,  sat  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  Lady  Thompson's  house  in  Russell  Square. 

That  year  had  made  much  difference  in  her,  for  the 
sweet  country  girl,  now  of  full  age,  had  blossomed 
into  the  beautiful  young  woman  of  the  world.  She 
had  wintered  in  Rome  and  studied  its  antiquities  and 
art.  She  had  learned  some  French  and  Italian,  for 
nothing  was  grudged  to  her  in  the  way  of  masters, 
and  worked  at  music,  for  which  she  had  a  natural 
taste.  She  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  society  also,  for 
Lady  Thompson  was  at  heart  proud  of  her  beautiful 
niece,  and  spared  no  expense  to  bring  her  into  con- 
tact with  such  people  as  she  considered  she  should 
know. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  the  fine  apartment  they 
occupied  in  Rome  had  many  visitors.  Among  these 
was  a  certain  Secretary  of  Legation,  the  Hon. 
Charles  Erskine  Russell,  who,  it  was  expected,  would 
in  the  course  of  nature  succeed  to  a  peerage.  He  was 
a  very  agreeable  as  well  as  an  accomplished  and 
wealthy  man,  and — he  fell  in  love  with  Barbara. 
With  the  cleverness  of  her  sex  she  managed  to  put 
him  off  and  to  avoid  any  actual  proposal  before  they 
left  for  Switzerland  in  the  early  summer.  Thither, 


262       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

happily,  he  could  not  follow  them,  since  his  official 
duties  prevented  him  from  leaving  the  Embassy. 
Lady  Thompson  was  much  annoyed  at  what  she  con- 
sidered his  bad  conduct,  and  said  as  much  to  Barbara. 

Her  niece  listened,  but  did  not  discuss  the  matter, 
with  the  result  that  Lady  Thompson's  opinion  of  the 
Hon.  Charles  Russell  was  confirmed.  Was  it  not 
clear  that  there  had  been  no  proposal,  although  it  was 
equally  clear  that  he  ought  to  have  proposed  ?  Poor 
Barbara!  Perhaps  this  was  the  only  act  of  decep- 
tion of  which  she  was  ever  guilty. 

So  things  went  on  until  the  previous  day,  the  Mon- 
day after  their  arrival  in  London,  when,  most  unhap- 
pily, Lady  Thompson  went  out  to  lunch  and  met  the 
Hon.  Charles  Russell,  who  was  on  leave  in  England. 

Next  morning,  while  Barbara  was  engaged  in  ar- 
ranging some  flowers  in  the  drawing-room,  who 
should  be  shown  in  but  Mr.  Russell.  In  her  alarm 
she  dropped  a  bowl  and  broke  it,  a  sign  that  he  evi- 
dently considered  hopeful,  setting  it  down  to  the  emo- 
tion which  his  sudden  presence  caused.  To  emotion 
it  was  due,  indeed,  but  not  of  a  kind  he  would  have 
wished.  Recovering  herself,  Barbara  shook  his  hand 
and  then  told  the  servant  who  was  picking  up  the 
pieces  of  the  bowl  to  inform  her  ladyship  of  the 
arrival  of  this  morning  caller. 

The  man  bowed  and  departed,  and  as  he  went  Bar- 
bara noticed  an  ominous  twinkle  in  the  pleasant  blue 
eyes  of  the  Hon.  Charles  Russell. 

The  rest  of  the  interview  may  be  summed  up  in  a 
few  words.  Mr.  Russell  was  eloquent,  passionate 
and  convincing.  He  assured  Barbara  that  she  was 


rA  YEAR  LATER  263 

the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved  with  such  force 
and  conviction  that  in  the  end  she  almost  believed 
him.  But  this  belief,  if  it  existed,  did  not  in  the  least 
shake  her  absolutely  definite  determination  to  have 
nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with  her  would-be  lover. 

Not  until  she  had  told  him  so  six  times,  however, 
did  he  consent  to  believe  her,  for  indeed  he  had  been 
led  to  expect  a  very  different  answer. 

"I  suppose  you  care  for  someone  else,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"Yes,"  said  Barbara,  whose  back,  metaphorically, 
was  against  the  wall. 

"Somebody  much  more — suitable." 

"No,"  said  Barbara,  "he  is  poor  and  not  distin- 
guished and  has  all  his  way  to  make  in  the  world/' 

"He  might  change  his  mind,  or — die." 

"If  so,  I  should  not  change  mine,"  said  Barbara. 
"Very  likely  I  shall  not  marry  him,  but  I  shall  not 
marry  anyone  else." 

"In  heaven's  name,  why  not?" 

"Because  it  would  be  a  sacrilege  against  heaven/' 

Then  at  last  Mr.  Russell  understood. 

"Allow  me  to  offer  you  my  good  wishes  and  to 
assure  you  of  my  earnest  and  unalterable  respect," 
he  said  in  a  somewhat  broken  voice,  and  taking  her 
hand  he  touched  it  lightly  with  his  lips,  turned,  and 
departed  out  of  Barbara's  sight  and  life. 

Ten  minutes  later  Lady  Thompson  arrived,  and 
her  coming  was  like  to  that  of  a  thunderstorm.  She 
shut  the  door,  locked  it,  and  sat  down  in  an  armchair 
in  solemn,  lurid  silence.  Then  with  one  swift  flash 
the  storm  broke. 


264       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"What  is  this  I  hear  from  Mr.  Russell  ?" 
"I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  have  heard 
from  Mr.  Russell,"  answered  Barbara  faintly. 

"Perhaps,  but  you  know  very  well  what  there  wa,s 
to  hear,  you  wicked,  ungrateful  girl." 

"Wicked !"  murmured  Barbara,  "ungrateful !" 
"Yes,  it  is  wicked  to  lead  a  man  on  and  then  reject 
him  as  though  he  were — rubbish.  And  it  is  ungrate- 
ful to  throw  away  the  chances  that  a  kind  aunt  and 
Providence  put  in  your  way.  What  have  you  against 
him?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  I  think  him  very  nice." 
Lady  Thompson's  brow  lightened ;  if  she  thought 
him  "very  nice"  all  might  yet  be  well.  Perhaps  this 
refusal  was  nothing  but  nonsensical  modesty.  Mr. 
Russell,  being  a  gentleman,  had  not  told  her  every- 
thing. 

"Then  I  say  you  shall  marry  him." 
"And  I  say,  Aunt,  that  I  will  not  and  cannot." 
"Why  ?    Have  you  been  secretly  converted  to  the 
Church  of  Rome  and  are  you  going  into  a  nunnery  ? 
Or  is  there — another  man  ?" 
"Yes,  Aunt." 

"Where  is  he?"  said  Lady  Thompson,  looking 
about  her  as  though  she  expected  to  find  him  hidden 
behind  the  furniture.  "And  how  did  you  manage 
to  become  entangled  with  him,  you  sly  girl,  under 
my  very  nose  ?  And  who  is  he  ?  One  of  those  bow- 
ing and  scraping  Italians,  I  suppose,  who  think 
you'll  get  my  money.  Tell  me  the  truth  at  once." 

"He  is  somebody  you  have  never  seen,  Aunt.  One 
of  the  Arnotts  down  at  home." 


A  YEAR  LATER  265 

"Oh,  that  Captain!  Well,  I  believe  they  have  a 
decent  property,  about  £2,000  a  year,  but  all  in  land, 
which  Sir  Samuel  never  held  by.  Of  course,  it  is 
nothing  like  the  Russell  match,  which  would  have 
made  a  peeress  of  you  some  day  and  given  you  a 
great  position  meanwhile.  But  I  suppose  we  must 
be  thankful  for  small  mercies." 

"It  is  not  Captain  Arnott,  it  is  his  younger  brother 
Anthony." 

"Anthony!  Anthony,  that  youth  who  is  reading 
for  the  Bar.  Why,  the  property  is  all  entailed,  and 
he  will  scarcely  have  a  half-penny,  for  his  mother 
brought  no  money  to  the  Arnotts.  Oh,  this  is  too 
much !  To  throw  up  Mr.  Russell  for  an  Anthony. 
Are  you  engaged  to  him  with  your  parents'  consent, 
may  I  ask,  and  if  so,  why  was  the  matter  concealed 
from  me,  who  would  certainly  have  declined  to  drag 
an  entangled  young  woman  about  the  world  ?" 

"I  am  not  engaged,  but  my  father  and  mother 
know  that  we  are  attached  to  each  other.  It  hap- 
pened the  day  after  you  came  to  Eastwich,  or  they 
would  have  told  you.  My  father  made  me  promise 
that  we  would  not  correspond  while  I  was  away,  as 
he  thought  that  we  were  too  young  to  bind  ourselves 
to  each  other,  especially  as  Anthony  has  no  present 
prospects  or  means  to  support  a  wife." 

"I  am  glad  they  had  so  much  sense.  It  is  more 
than  might  have  been  expected  of  my  sister  after  her 
own  performance,  for  which  doubtless  she  is  sorry 
enough  now.  Like  you,  she  might  have  married  a 
title  instead  of  a  curate  and  beggary." 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  my  mother  is  not  sorry, 


266       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

Aunt,"  replied  Barbara,  whose  spirit  was  rising. 
"I  know  that  she  is  a  very  happy  woman." 

"Look  here,  Barbara,  let's  come  to  the  point. 
Will  you  give  up  this  moon-calf  business  of  yours 
or  not?" 

"It  is  not  a  moon-calf  business,  whatever  that  may 
be,  and  I  will  not  give  it  up." 

"Very  well,  then,  I  can't  make  you  as  you  are  of 
age.  But  I  have  done  with  you.  You  will  go  to 
your  room  and  stop  there,  and  to-morrow  morning 
you  will  return  to  your  parents,  to  whom  I  will  write 
at  once.  You  have  betrayed  my  hospitality  and  pre- 
sumed upon  my  kindness ;  after  all  the  things  I  have 
given  you,  too,"  and  her  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon 
a  pearl  necklace  that  Barbara  was  wearing.  For 
Lady  Thompson  could  be  generous  when  she  was  in 
the  mood. 

Barbara  unfastened  the  necklace  and  offered  it  to 
her  aunt  without  a  word. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Lady  Thompson.  "Do  you 
think  I  want  to  rob  you  of  your  trinkets  because  I 
happen  to  have  given  them  to  you  ?  Keep  them,  they 
may  be  useful  one  day  when  you  have  a  husband  and 
a  family  and  no  money.  Pearls  may  pay  the  butcher 
and  the  rent." 

"Thank  you  for  all  your  kindness,  Aunt,  and 
good-bye.  I  am  sorry  that  I  am  not  able  to  do  as  you 
wish  about  marriage,  but  after  all  a  woman's  life  is 
her  own." 

"That's  just  what  it  isn't  and  never  has  been.  A 
woman's  life  is  her  husband's  and  her  children's,  and 
that's  why — but  it  is  no  use  arguing.  You  have 


A  YEAR  LATER  267 

taKen  your  own  line.  Perhaps  you  are  right,  God 
knows.  At  any  rate,  it  isn't  mine,  so  we  had  better 
part.  Still,  I  rather  admire  your  courage.  I  wonder 
what  this  young  fellow  is  like  for  whose  sake  you  are 
prepared  to  lose  so  much;  more  than  you  think, 
maybe,  for  I  had  grown  fond  of  you.  Well,  good- 
bye, I'll  see  about  your  getting  off.  There,  don't 
think  that  I  bear  malice  although  I  am  so  angry  with 
you.  Write  to  me  when  you  get  into  a  tight  place," 
and  rising,  she  kissed  her,  rather  roughly  but  not 
without  affection,  and  flung  out  of  the  room  like  one 
who  feared  to  trust  herself  there  any  longer. 

On  the  evening  of  the  following  day  Barbara, 
emerging  from  the  carrier's  cart  at  the  blacksmith's 
corner  at  Eastwich,  was  met  by  a  riotous  throng  of 
five  energetic  young  sisters  who  nearly  devoured  her 
with  kisses.  So  happy  was  that  greeting,  indeed, 
that  in  it  she  almost  forgot  her  sorrows.  In  truth,  as 
she  reflected,  why  should  she  be  sorry  at  all?  She 
was  clear  of  a  suitor  whom  she  did  not  wish  to 
marry,  and  of  an  aunt  whose  very  kindness  was  op- 
pressive and  whose  temper  was  terrible.  She  had 
fifty  pounds  in  her  pocket  and  a  good  stock  of 
clothes,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pearls  and  other  jewel- 
lery, wealth  indeed  if  measured  by  the  Walrond 
standard.  Her  beloved  sisters  were  evidently  in  the 
best  of  health  and  spirits ;  also,  as  she  thought,  better- 
looking  than  any  girls  she  had  seen  since  she  bade 
them  farewell.  Her  father  and  mother  were,  as  they 
told  her,  well  and  delighted  at  her  return ;  and  lastly, 
as  she  had  already  gathered,  Anthony  either  was  or 


268       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

was  about  to  be  at  the  Hall.  Why  then  should  she 
be  sorry?  Why  indeed  should  she  not  rejoice  and 
thank  God  for  these  good  things? 

On  that  evening,  however,  when  supper  was  done, 
she  had  a  somewhat  serious  interview  with  her  father 
and  mother  who  sat  on  either  side  of  her,  each  of 
them  holding  one  of  her  hands,  for  they  could 
scarcely  bear  her  out  of  their  sight.  She  had  told  all 
the  tale  of  the  Hon.  Charles  Russell  and  of  her  vio- 
lent dismissal  by  her  aunt,  of  which  story  they  were 
not  entirely  ignorant,  for  Lady  Thompson  had  al- 
ready advised  them  of  these  events  by  letter. 

The  Reverend  Septimus  shook  his  head  sadly.  He 
was  not  a  worldly-minded  man ;  still,  to  have  a  pre- 
sumptive peer  for  a  son-in-law,  who  would  doubtless 
also  become  an  ambassador,  was  a  prospect  that  at 
heart  he  relinquished  with  regret.  Also  this  young 
Arnott  business  seemed  very  vague  and  unsatisfac- 
tory, and  there  were  the  other  girls  and  their  future 
to  be  considered.  No  wonder,  then,  that  he  shook 
his  kindly  grey  head  and  looked  somewhat  depressed. 

But  his  wife  took  another  line. 

"Septimus,"  she  said,  "in  these  matters  a  woman 
must  judge  by  her  own  heart,  and  you  see  Barbara 
is  a  woman  now.  Once,  you  remember,  I  had  to 
face  something  of  the  same  sort,  and  I  do  not  think, 
dear,  notwithstanding  all  our  troubles,  that  either  of 
us  have  regretted  our  decision." 

Then  they  both  rose  and  solemnly;  kissed  eacH 
other  over  Barbara's  head. 


WEDDED  269 


CHAPTER  V 

WEDDED 

NEXT  day,  oh!  joy  of  joys,  Barbara  and  Anthony 
met  once  more  after  some  fifteen  months  of  separa- 
tion. Anthony  was  now  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  a 
fine  young  man  with  well-cut  features,  brown  eyes 
and  a  pleasant  smile.  Muscularly,  too,  he  was  very 
strong,  as  was  shown  by  his  athletic  record  at  Cam- 
bridge. Whether  his  strength  extended  to  his  con- 
stitution was  another  matter.  Mrs.  Walrond,  notic- 
ing his  unvarying  colour,  which  she  thought  unduly 
high,  and  the  transparent  character  of  his  skin, 
spoke  to  her  husband  upon  the  matter. 

In  his  turn  Spetimus  spoke  to  the  old  local  doctor, 
who  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  remarked  that  the 
Arnotts  had  been  delicate  for  generations,  "lungy," 
he  called  it.  Noticing  that  Mr.  Walrond  looked  seri- 
ous, and  knowing  something  of  how  matters  stood 
between  Anthony  and  Barbara,  he  hastened  to  add 
that  so  far  as  he  knew  there  was  no  cause  for  alarm, 
and  that  if  he  were  moderately  careful  he  thought 
that  Anthony  would  live  to  eighty. 

"But  it  is  otherwise  with  his  brother,"  he  added 
significantly,  "and  for  the  matter  of  that  with  the  old 
man  also." 

Then  he  went  away,  and  there  was  something  in 
the  manner  of  his  going  which  seemed  to  suggest 
that  he  did  not  wish  to  continue  the  conversation. 


270       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

From  Anthony,  however,  Barbara  soon  learned 
the  truth  as  to  his  brother.  His  lungs  were  gone,  for 
the  chill  he  took  in  the  Crimea  had  settled  on  them, 
and  now  there  was  left  to  him  but  a  little  time  to  live. 
This  was  sad  news  and  marred  the  happiness  of  their 
meeting,  since  both  of  them  were  far  too  unworldly 
to  consider  its  effect  upon  their  own  prospects,  or  that 
it  would  make  easy  that  which  had  hitherto  seemed 
almost  impossible. 

"Are  you  nursing  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  more  or  less.  I  took  him  to  the  South  of 
England  for  two  months,  but  it  did  no  good." 

"I  am  glad  the  thing  is  not  catching,"  she  re- 
marked, glancing  at  him. 

"Oh,  no/*  he  replied  carelessly,  "I  never  heard 
that  it  was  catching,  though  some  people  say  it  runs 
in  families.  I  hope  not,  I  am  sure,  as  the  poor  old 
chap  insists  upon  my  sleeping  in  his  room  whenever 
I  am  at  home,  as  we  used  to  do  when  we  were  boys/' 

Then  their  talk  wandered  elsewhere,  for  they  had 
so  much  to  say  to  each  other  that  it  seemed  doubtful 
if  they  would  ever  get  to  the  end  of  it  all.  Anthony 
was  particularly  anxious  to  learn  what  blessed  cir- 
cumstance had  caused  Barbara's  sudden  reappear- 
ance at  Eastwich.  She  fenced  for  a  while,  then  told 
him  all  the  truth. 

"So  you  gave  up  this  brilliant  marriage  for  me,  a 
fellow  with  scarcely  a  half-penny  and  very  few  pros- 
pects," he  exclaimed,  staring  at  her. 

"Of  course.  What  would  you  have  expected  me 
to  do — marry  one  man  while  I  love  another?  As 
for  the  rest  it  must  take  its  chance,"  and  while  the 


WEDDED  271 

words  were  on  her  lips,  for  the  first  time  it  came  into 
Barbara's  mind  that  perhaps  Anthony  had  no  need  to 
trouble  about  his  worldly  fortunes.  For  if  it  were 
indeed  true  that  Captain  Arnott  was  doomed,  who 
else  would  succeed  to  the  estate  ? 

"I  think  you  are  an  angel,"  he  said,  still  overcome 
by  this  wondrous  instance  of  fidelity  and  of  courage 
in  the  face  of  Lady  Thompson's  anger. 

"If  I  had  done  anything  else,  I  think,  Anthony, 
that  you  might  very  well  have  called  me — whatever 
is  the  reverse  of  an  angel." 

And  thus  the  links  of  their  perfect  love  were  drawn 
even  closer  than  before. 

Only  three  days  later  Mr.  Walrond  was  sum- 
moned hastily  to  the  Hall.  When  he  returned  from 
his  ministrations  it  was  to  announce  in  a  sad  voice 
that  Captain  Arnott  was  sinking  fast.  Before  the 
following  morning  he  was  dead. 

A  month  or  so  after  the  grave  had  closed  ovet> 
Captain  Arnott  the  engagement  of  Anthony  and 
Barbara  was  announced  formally,  and  by  the  express 
wish  of  Mr.  Arnott.  The  old  gentleman  had  for 
years  been  partially  paralysed  and  in  a  delicate  state 
of  health,  which  the  sad  loss  of  his  elder  son  had 
done  much  to  render  worse.  He  sent  for  Barbara, 
whom  he  had  known  from  her  childhood,  and  told 
her  that  the  sooner  she  and  Anthony  were  married 
the  better  he  would  be  pleased. 

"You  see,  my  dear,"  he  added,  "I  do  not  wish  the 
old  name  to  die  out  after  we  have  been  in  this  place 
for  three  hundred  years,  and  you  Walronds  are  a 


272       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

healthy  stock,  which  is  more  than  we  can  say  now. 
Worn  out,  I  suppose,  worn  out !  In  fact,"  he  went 
on,  looking  at  her  sharply,  "it  is  for  you  to  consider 
whether  you  care  to  take  the  risks  of  coming  into 
this  family,  for  whatever  the  doctors  may  or  may 
not  say,  I  think  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  straight  out 
that  in  my  opinion  there  is  some  risk." 

"If  so,  I  do  not  fear  it,  Mr.  Arnott,  and  I  hope 
you  will  not  put  any  such  idea  into  Anthony's  head. 
If  you  do  he  might  refuse  to  marry  me,  and  that 
would  break  my  heart." 

"No,  I  dare  say  you  do  not  fear  it,  but  there  are 
other — well,  things  must  take  their  course.  If  we 
were  always  thinking  of  the  future  no  one  would 
dare  to  stir." 

Then  he  told  her  that  when  first  he  heard  of  their 
mutual  attachment  he  had  been  much  disturbed,  as 
he  did  not  see  how  they  were  to  marry. 

"But  poor  George's  death  has  changed  all  that," 
he  said,  "since  now  Anthony  will  get  the  estate, 
which  is  practically  the  only  property  we  have,  and 
it  ought  always  to  produce  enough  to  keep  you 
going  and  to  maintain  the  place  in  a  modest  way." 

Lastly  he  presented  her  with  a  valuable  set  of  dia- 
monds that  had  belonged  to  his  mother,  saying  he 
might  not  be  alive  to  do  so  when  the  time  of  her  mar- 
riage came,  and  dismissed  her  with  his  blessing. 

In  due  course  all  these  tidings,  including  that  of 
the  diamonds,  came  to  the  ears  of  Aunt  Thompson 
and  wondrously  softened  that  lady's  anger.  Indeed, 
she  wrote  to  Barbara  in  very  affectionate  terms,  to 
wish  her  every  happiness  and  say  how  glad  she  was 


WEDDED  273 

to  hear  that  she  was  settling  herself  so  well  in  life. 
She  added  that  she  should  make  a  point  of  being 
present  at  the  wedding.  A  postscript  informed  her 
that  Mr.  Russell  was  about  to  be  married  to  an 
Italian  countess,  a  widow. 

Barbara's  wedding  was  fixed  for  October.  At  the 
beginning  of  that  month,  however,  Anthony  was 
seized  with  some  unaccountable  kind  of  illness  in 
which  coughing  played  a  considerable  part.  So 
severe  were  its  effects  that  it  was  thought  desirable 
to  postpone  the  ceremony.  The  doctor  ordered  him 
away  for  a  change  of  air.  On  the  morning  of  his 
departure  he  spoke  seriously  to  Barbara. 

"I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me/'  he 
said,  "and  I  don't  think  it  is  very  much  at  present. 
But,  dear,  I  have  a  kind  of  presentiment  that  I  am 
going  to  become  an  invalid.  My  strength  is  nothing 
like  what  it  was,  and  at  times  it  fails  me  in  a  most 
unaccountable  manner.  Barbara,  it  breaks  by  heart 
to  say  it,  but  I  doubt  whether  you  ought  to  marry 
me."' 

"If  you  were  going  to  be  a  permanent  invalid, 
which  I  do  not  believe  for  one  moment,"  answered 
Barbara  steadily,  "you  would  want  a  nurse,  and  who 
could  nurse  you  so  well  as  your  wife?  Therefore 
unless  you  had  ceased  to  care  for  me,  I  should  cer- 
tainly marry  you." 

Then,  as  still  he  seemed  to  hesitate,  she  flung  her 
arms  about  him  and  kissed  him,  which  was  an  argu- 
ment that  he  lacked  strength  to  resist. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  her  father  also  spoke  to 
Barbara. 


274       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

"I  don't  like  this  illness  of  Anthony's,  my  dear. 
The  doctor  does  not  seem  to  understand  it,  or  at 
any  rate  so  he  pretends,  and  says  he  has  no  doubt 
it  will  pass  off.  But  I  cannot  help  remembering  the 
case  of  his  brother  George;  also  that  of  his  mother 
before  him.  In  short,  Barbara,  do  you  think — well, 
that  it  would  be  wise  to  marry  him  ?  I  know  that  to 
break  it  off  would  be  dreadful,  but,  you  see,  health 
is  so  very  important." 

Barbara  turned  on  her  father  almost  fiercely. 

"Whose  health  ?"  she  asked.  "If  you  mean  mine, 
it  is  in  no  danger;  and  if  it  were  I  should  care 
nothing.  What  good  would  health  be  to  me  if  I 
lost  Anthony,  who  is  more  to  me  than  life?  But 
if  you  mean  his  health,  then  the  greatest  happiness 
I  can  have  is  to  nurse  him." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand,  dear.  But,  you  see,  there 
might  be — others." 

"If  so,  father,  they  must  run  their  risks  as  we  do ; 
that  is  if  there  are  any  risks  for  them  to  run,  which 
I  doubt." 

"I  dare  say  you  are  quite  right,  dear;  indeed,  I 
feel  almost  sure  that  you  are  right,  only  I  thought  it 
my  duty  to  mention  the  matter,  which  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  me  for  having  done.  And  now  I  may 
tell  you  I  have  a  letter  from  Anthony,  saying  that  he 
is  ever  so  much  better,  and  asking  if  the  fifteenth  of 
November  will  suit  us  for  the  wedding." 

On  the  fifteenth  of  November,  accordingly,  An- 
thony and  Barbara  were  made  man  and  wife  by  the 
bride's  father  with  the  assistance  of  the  clergyman  of 


WEDDED  275 

the  next  parish.  Owing  to  the  recent  death  of  the 
bridegroom's  brother  and  the  condition  of  Mr.  Ar- 
nott's  health  the  wedding  was  extremely  quiet. 
Still,  in  its  own  way  it  was  as  charming  as  it  was 
happy.  All  her  five  sisters  acted  as  Barbara's  brides- 
maids, and  many  gathered  in  that  church  said  they 
were  the  most  beautiful  bevy  of  maidens  that  ever 
had  been  seen.  But  if  so,  Barbara  outshone  them 
all,  perhaps  because  of  her  jewels  and  fine  clothes 
and  the  radiance  on  her  lovely  face. 

Anthony,  who  seemed  to  be  quite  well  again,  also 
looked  extremely  handsome,  while  Aunt  Thompson, 
who  by  now  had  put  off  her  mourning,  shone  in  that 
dim  church  as  the  sun  shines  through  a  morning 
mist. 

In  short,  all  went  as  merrily  as  it  should,  save  that 
the  bride's  mother  seemed  depressed  and  wept  a 
little. 

This,  said  her  sister  to  someone  in  a  loud  voice, 
was  in  her  opinion  nothing  short  of  wicked.  What 
business,  she  asked,  has  a  woman  with  six  portionless 
daughters  to  cry  because  one  of  them  is  making  a 
good  marriage ;  "though  it  is  true,"  she  added,  drop- 
ping her  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper,  "that  had 
Barbara  chosen  she  might  have  made  a  better  one. 
Yes,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  she  might  have  been  a 
peeress,  instead  of  the  wife  of  a  mere  country 
squire." 

In  truth,  Mrs.  Walrond  was  ill  at  ease  about  this 
marriage,  why  she  did  not  know.  Something  in  her 
heart  seemed  to  tell  her  that  her  dear  daughter's  hap- 
piness would  not  be  of  long  continuance.  Bearing 


276       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

in  mind  his  family  history,  she  feared  for  Anthony's 
health ;  indeed,  she  feared  a  hundred  things  that  she 
was  quite  unable  to  define.  However,  at  the  little 
breakfast  which  followed  she  seemed  quite  to  recover 
her  spirits  and  laughed  as  merrily  as  anyone  at  the 
speech  which  Lady  Thompson  insisted  upon  making, 
in  which  she  described  Barbara  as  "her  darling,  beau- 
tiful and  most  accomplished  niece,  who  indeed  was 
almost  her  daughter." 


CHAPTER  VI 

PARTED 

HARD  indeed  would  it  be  to  find  a  happier  marriage 
than  that  of  Anthony  and  Barbara.  They  adored 
each  other.  Never  a  shadow  came  between  them. 
Almost  might  it  be  said  that  their  thoughts  were  one 
thought  and  their  hearts  one  heart.  It  is  common  to 
hear  of  twin  souls,  but  how  often  are  they  to  be  met 
with  in  the  actual  experience  of  life?  Here,  how- 
ever, they  really  might  be  found,  or  so  it  would  seem. 
Had  they  been  one  ancient  entity  divided  long  ago 
by  the  working  of  Fate  and  now  brought  together 
once  more  through  the  power  of  an  over-mastering1 
attraction,  their  union  could  not  have  been  more  com- 
plete. To  the  eye  of  the  observer,  and  indeed  to 
their  own  eyes,  it  showed  neither  seam  nor  flaw. 
They  were  one  and  indivisible. 

About  such  happiness  as  this  there  is  something 
alarming,  something  ominous.    Mrs.  Walrond  felt  it 


PARTED  277 

from  the  first,  and  they,  the  two  persons  concerned, 
felt  it  also. 

"Our  joy  frightens  me/'  said  Anthony  to  Barbara 
one  day.  "I  feel  like  that  Persian  monarch  who 
threw  his  most  treasured  ring  into  the  sea  because 
he  was  too  fortunate ;  you  remember  the  sea  refused 
the  offering,  for  the  royal  cook  found  it  in  the  mouth 
of  a  fish." 

"Then,  dear,  he  was  doubly  fortunate,  for  he  made 
his  sacrifice  and  kept  his  ring." 

Anthony,  seeing  that  Barbara  had  never  heard  the 
story  and  its  ending,  did  not  tell  it  to  her,  but  she 
read  something  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  as 
very  often  she  had  the  power  to  do. 

"Dearest,"  she  said  earnestly,  "I  know  what  you 
think.  You  think  that  such  happiness  as  ours  will 
not  be  allowed  to  last  for  long,  that  something  evil 
will  overtake  us.  Well,  it  may  be  so,  but  if  it  is  at 
least  we  shall  have  had  the  happiness,  which  having 
been,  will  remain  for  ever,  a  part  of  you,  a  part  of 
me;  a  temple  of  our  love  not  built  with  hands  in 
which  we  shall  offer  thanks  eternally,  here  and — be- 
yond," and  she  nodded  towards  the  glory  of  the  sun- 
set sky,  then  turned  and  kissed  him. 

As  it  chanced,  that  cruel  devouring  sea  which  rages 
at  the  feet  of  all  mankind  was  destined  ere  long  to 
take  the  offering  that  was  most  precious  to  these  two. 
Only  this  was  flung  to  its  waters,  not  by  their  hands, 
but  by  that  of  Fate,  nor  did  it  return  to  them  again. 

After  their  marriage  Anthony  and  Barbara  hired  a 
charming  little  Georgian  house  at  Chelsea  near  to  the 


278       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

river.  The  drawback  to  the  dwelling  was  that  it 
stood  quite  close  to  a  place  of  public  entertainment 
called  "The  Gardens,"  very  well  known  in  those  days 
as  the  nightly  haunt  of  persons  who  were  not  always 
as  respectable  as  they  might  have  been.  During  their 
sojourn  in  London  they  never  entered  these  Gardens, 
but  often  in  the  summer  evenings  they  passed  them 
when  out  for  the  walks  which  they  took  together, 
since  Anthony  spent  most  of  his  days  at  the  Temple 
studying  law  in  the  chambers  of  a  leading  barrister. 
Thus  their  somewhat  fantastic  gateway  became  im- 
pressed upon  Barbara's  mind,  as  did  the  character  of 
the  people  who  frequented  them.  As,  however,  their 
proximity  reduced  the  rent  of  their  own  and  neigh- 
bouring houses  by  about  one-half,  personally  they 
were  grateful  to  these  Gardens,  since  the  noise  of  the 
bands  and  the  dancing  did  not  trouble  them  much, 
and  those  who  danced  could  always  be  avoided. 

When  they  had  been  married  nearly  a  year  a  little 
daughter  was  born  to  them,  a  sweet  baby  with  violet 
eyes  like  to  those  of  Barbara.  Now  indeed  their  bliss 
was  complete,  but  it  was  not  fated  that  it  should  re- 
main, since  the  hungry  sea  took  its  sacrifice.  The 
summer  was  very  hot  in  London,  and  many  infants 
sickened  there  of  some  infantile  complaint,  among 
them  their  own  child.  Like  hundreds  of  others,  it 
died  when  only  a  few  months  old  and  left  them 
desolate. 

Perhaps  Anthony  was  the  more  crushed  of  the 
two,  since  here  Barbara's  vivid  faith  came  to  her  aid. 

"We  have  only  lost  her  for  a  while,"  she  said, 
choking  back  her  tears  as  she  laid  some  flowers  on 


PARTED  279 

the  little  grave.  "We  shall  find  her  again;  I  know 
that  we  shall  find  her  again,  and  meanwhile  she  will 
be  happier  than  she  could  have  been  with  us  in  this 
sad  world." 

Then  they  walked  back  home,  pushing  their  way 
through  the  painted  crowds  that  were  gathering  at 
the  gates  of  "The  Gardens,"  and  listening  to  the 
strains  of  the  gay  music  that  jarred  upon  their  ears. 

» 

In  due  course,  having  been  called  to  the  Bar,  An- 
thony entered  the  chambers  of  an  eminent  Common 
Law  leader.  Although  his  prospects  were  now 
good,  and  he  was  ere  long  likely  to  be  independent 
of  the  profession,  he  was  anxious  to  follow  it  and 
make  a  name  and  fortune  for  himself.  This  indeed 
he  would  have  found  little  difficulty  in  doing,  since 
soon  he  showed  that  he  had  studied  to  good  purpose; 
moreover,  his  gifts  were  decidedly  forensic.  He 
spoke  well  and  without  nervousness;  his  memory 
was  accurate  and  his  mind  logical.  Moreover,  he 
had  something  of  that  imaginative  and  sympathetic 
power  which  brings  an  advocate  success  with  juries. 

Already  he  had  been  entrusted  with  a  few  cases 
which  he  held  as  "devil"  for  somebody  else,  when 
two  events  happened  which  between  them  brought 
his  career  as  a  lawyer  to  an  end.  In  the  November 
after  the  death  of  their  baby  his  father  suddenly  died. 
On  receiving  the  news  of  his  fatal  illness  Anthony 
hurried  to  Eastwich  without  even  returning  home  to 
fetch  a  warm  overcoat,  and  as  a  result  took  a  severe 
cold.  During  the  winter  following  the  funeral  this 
cold  settled  on  his  lungs.  At  last  towards  the  spring- 


280       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

the  crisis  came.  He  was  taken  seriously  ill,  and  on 
his  partial  recovery  several  doctors  held  a  consulta- 
tion over  him.  Their  verdict  was  that  he  must  give 
up  his  profession,  which  fortunately  now  he  was  in 
a  posidon  to  do,  live  in  the  country  and  as  much  in 
the  open  air  as  possible,  spending  the  worst  months 
of  the  winter  either  in  the  South  of  England  or  in 
some  warmer  land.  These  grave  and  learned  men 
told  him  outright  that  his  lungs  were  seriously  at- 
tacked, and  that  he  must  choose  between  following 
their  advice  and  a  speedy  departure  from  the  world. 

Anthony  would  have  defied  them,  for  that  was  his 
nature.  He  wished  to  go  on  with  his  work  and  take 
the  risk.  But  Barbara  persuaded  him  to  obedience. 
She  said  she  agreed  with  him  that  the  matter  of  his 
health  was  greatly  exaggerated.  At  the  same  time, 
she  pointed  out  that  as  they  were  now  very  well  off 
she  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  continue  to  slave  at 
a  profession  which  might  or  might  not  bring  him  an 
adequate  return  fifteen  or  twenty  years  later.  She 
added  that  personally  she  detested  London,  and 
would  like  nothing  better  than  to  live  at  Eastwich 
near  her  own  people.  Also  she  showed  him  that  his 
rather  extensive  estate  needed  personal  attention, 
and  could  be  much  improved  in  value  if  he  were  there 
to  care  for  it. 

The  end  may  be  guessed ;  Anthony  gave  up  the  Bar 
and  the  house  in  Chelsea.  After  staying  at  Torquay 
for  a  few  of  the  winter  months,  where  his  health  im- 
proved enormously,  they  moved  to  Eastwich  during 
the  following  May.  Here  their  welcome  was  warm 
indeed,  not  only  from  the  Rectory  party,  who  re- 


PARTED  281 

joiced  to  have  Barbara  back  among  them,  but  from 
the  entire  neighbourhood,  including  the  tenants  and 
labourers  on  the  property. 

The  ensuing  summer  was  one  of  the  happiest  of 
their  married  life.  Anthony  became  so  much  better 
that  Barbara  began  to  believe  he  had  thrown  off  his 
lung  weakness.  Certain  repairs  and  rearrangements 
of  the  old  Elizabethan  house  agreeably  occupied  their 
time,  and  to  crown  all,  on  Christmas  Eve  Barbara 
gave  birth  to  a  son,  an  extraordinarily  fine  and  vig- 
orous child,  red-haired,  blue-eyed,  and  so  far  as  could 
be  seen  at  that  early  age  entirely  unlike  either  of  his 
parents. 

The  old  doctor  who  ushered  him  into  the  world  re- 
marked that  he  had  never  seen  a  more  splendid  and 
perfect  boy,  nor  one  who  appeared  to  possess  a  ro- 
buster  constitution. 

In  due  course  Mr.  Walrond  christened  him  by  the 
name  of  Anthony,  after  his  father,  and  a  dinner  was 
given  to  the  tenants  and  labourers  in  honour  of  the 
event. 

That  same  month,  there  being  a  dearth  of  suitable 
men  with  an  adequate  knowledge  of  the  law,  An- 
thony, who  already  was  a  magistrate,  though  so 
young,  was  elected  a  Deputy-Chairman  of  Quarter 
Sessions  for  his  county.  This  local  honour  pleased 
him  very  much,  since  now  he  knew  that  his  legal  edu- 
cation would  not  be  wasted,  and  that  he  would  have 
an  opportunity  of  turning  it  to  use  as  a  judge  of 
minor  cases. 

Yet  this  grateful  and  consolatory  appointment  in 
the  end  brought  him  evil  and  not  good.  The  first 


282       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

Quarter  Sessions  at  which  he  was  called  upon  to  pre- 
side in  one  of  the  courts  fell  in  February,  when  he 
ought  to  have  been  out  of  the  East  of  England.  The 
calendar  was  heavy,  and  Anthony  acquitted  himself 
very  well  in  the  trial  of  some  difficult  cases,  earning 
the  compliments  of  all  concerned.  But  on  leaving  the 
hot  court  after  a  long  day  he  caught  a  heavy  cold, 
which  awoke  his  latent  complaint,  and  from  that 
time  forward  he  began  to  go  down  hill. 

Still,  watched,  fought  against  by  Barbara,  its 
progress  was  slow.  The  winter  months  they  spent 
in  warmer  climates,  only  residing  in  Eastwich  from 
May  to  November.  During  the  summer  Anthony 
occupied  himself  on  matters  connected  with  the  estate 
and  principally  with  the  cultivation  of  the  home 
farm.  Indeed,  as  time  went  on  and  increasing  weak- 
ness forced  him  to  withdraw  himself  more  and  more 
from  the  world  and  its  affairs  the  interests  of  this 
farm  loomed  ever  larger  in  his  eyes,  as  largely  in- 
deed as  though  he  depended  upon  it  alone  for  his 
daily  bread.  Moreover,  it  brought  him  into  touch 
with  Nature,  and  now  that  they  were  so  near  to 
parting,  his  friendship  with  her  grew  very  close. 

This  was  one  of  his  troubles,  that  when  he  died, 
and  he  knew  that  before  very  long  he  must  die,  even 
if  he  continued  to  live  in  some  other  form,  he  must 
bid  farewell  to  the  Nature  that  he  knew. 

Of  course,  there  was  much  of  her,  her  cruel  side, 
that  he  would  rejoice  to  lose.  He  could  scarcely  con- 
ceive a  future  existence  framed  upon  those  lines  of 
struggle,  which  in  its  working  involves  pain  and 
cruelty  and  death.  Putting  aside  sport  and  its  pleas- 


PARTED  283 

tires,  which  he  had  abandoned  because  of  the  suffer- 
ing and  extinction  entailed  upon  the  shot  or  hunted 
creatures,  to  him  it  seemed  inexpressibly  sad  that 
even  his  honest  farming  operations,  at  least  where 
the  beasts  were  concerned,  should  always  culminate 
in  death.  Why  should  the  faithful  horse  be  knocked 
on  the  head  when  it  grew  old,  or  the  poor  cow  go  to 
the  butcher  as  a  reward  for  its  long  career  of  useful- 
ness and  profit? 

What  relentless  power  had  thus  decreed  ?  In  any 
higher  life  surely  this  decree  would  be  rescinded, 
and  of  that  side  of  Nature  he  had  seen  more  than 
enough  upon  the  earth.  It  was  her  gentler  and  harm- 
less aspects  from  which  he  did  not  wish  to  part — 
from  the  flower  and  the  fruit,  from  the  spring  blade 
and  the  ripened  corn ;  from  the  beauty  that  brooded 
over  sea  and  land ;  from  the  glory  of  the  spreading 
firmament  alive  with  light,  and  the  winds  that  blew 
beneath  it,  and  the  rains  that  washed  the  face  of 
earth;  from  the  majestic  passage  of  the  glittering 
stars  shedding  their  sweet  influences  through  the 
night.  To  bid  farewell  to  such  things  as  these  must, 
to  his  mind,  indeed  be  terrible. 

Once  he  said  as  much  to  Barbara,  who  thought  a 
while  and  answered  him : 

"Why  should  we  be  taken  beyond  all  such  things  ? 
It  seems  scarcely  reasonable.  I  know  we  have  not 
much  to  go  on,  but  did  not  the  Christ  speak  of  drink- 
ing the  fruit  of  the  vine  'new  with  you  in  my  Father's 
kingdom'  ?  Therefore  surely  there  must  be  a  grow- 
ing plant  that  produces  the  fruit  and  a  process  'di- 
rected by  intelligence  that  turns  it  into  wine.  There 


284       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

must  be  husbandmen  or  farmers.  There  must  be 
mansions  or  abiding  places,  also,  for  they  are  spoken 
of,  and  flowers  and  all  things  that  are  beautiful  and 
useful;  a  new  earth  indeed,  but  not  one  so  different 
to  the  old  as  to  be  utterly  unfamiliar." 

Anthony  said  no  more  of  the  matter  at  this  time, 
but  it  must  have  remained  in  his  mind.  At  any  rate, 
a  month  or  two  later  when  he  woke  up  one  morning 
he  said  to  Barbara : 

"Will  you  laugh  very  much  if  I  tell  you  of  a  dream 
that  came  to  me  last  night — if  it  was  a  dream,  for  I 
seemed  to  be  still  awake?" 

"Why  should  I  laugh  at  your  dream?"  she  asked, 
kissing  him.  "I  often  think  that  there  is  as 
much  truth  in  dreams  as  in  anything  else.  Tell  it 
to  me." 

"I  dreamed  that  I  saw  a  mighty  landscape  which 
I  knew  was  not  of  the  earth.  It  came  to  me  like  a 
picture,  and  a  great  stillness  brooded  over  it.  At 
the  back  of  this  landscape  stood  a  towering  cliff  of 
stern  rock  thousands  of  feet  high.  Set  at  intervals 
along  the  edge  of  the  cliff  were  golden  figures, 
mighty  and  immovable.  Whether  they  were  living 
guards  or  only  statues  I  do  not  know,  for  I  never 
came  near  to  them.  Here  and  there,  miles  apart, 
streams  from  the  lands  beyond  poured  over  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  in  huge  cascades  of  foam  that  became 
raging  torrents  when  they  reached  its  lower  slopes. 
One  of  these  rivers  fed  a  lake  which  lay  in  a  chasm 
on  the  slopes,  and  from  either  end  of  this  lake  poured 
two  rivers  which  seemed  to  me  about  twenty  miles 
apart,  as  we  should  judge.  They  ran  through  groves 


PARTED  285 

of  cedars  and  large  groups  of  forest  trees  not  unlike 
to  enormous  oaks  and  pines,  and  yet  not  the  same. 

"One  river,  that  to  the  right  if  I  looked  towards 
the  lake,  was  very  broad,  so  broad  that  after  it 
reached  the  plain  and  flowed  slowly,  great  ships  could 
have  sailed  upon  it.  The  other,  that  to  the  left,  was 
smaller  and  more  rapid,  but  it  also  wandered  away 
across  the  plain  till  my  sight  could  follow  it  no 
farther.  I  observed  that  the  broad,  right-hand  river 
evidently  inundated  its  banks  in  seasons  of  flood, 
much  as  the  Nile  does,  and  that  all  along  those  banks 
were  fields  filled  with  rich  crops,  of  what  sort  I  do 
not  know.  The  plain  itself,  which  I  take  it  was  a 
kind  of  delta,  the  gift  of  the  great  river,  was  limit- 
less. It  stretched  on  and  on,  broken  only  by  forests, 
along  the  edges  of  which  moved  many  animals. 

"When  first  I  saw  this  landscape  it  was  suffused 
with  a  sweet  and  pearly  light,  that  came  not  from 
sun  or  moon  or  stars,  but  from  a  luminous  body  in 
shape  like  a  folded  fan,  of  which  the  handle  rested 
on  the  earth.  By  degrees  this  fan  began  to  open ;  I 
suppose  that  it  was  the  hour  of  dawn.  Its  ribs  of 
gorgeous  light  spread  themselves  from  one  side  of 
heaven  to  the  other  and  were  joined  together  by  webs 
of  a  thousand  colours,  of  such  stuff  as  the  rainbow, 
only  a  hundred  times  more  beautiful.  The  reflection 
from  these  rainbow  webs  lay  upon  the  earth,  divided 
by  and  sometimes  mingled  with  those  from  the  bars 
of  light,  and  made  it  glorious. 

"All  these  things  I  saw  from  an  eminence  on 
which  I  stood  that  rose  between  the  rivers  at  the  head 
of  the  plain.  At  length,. overcome  by  the  splendour, 


286       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

drunK  as  it  were  with  beauty,  I  turned  to  look  behind 
me,  and  there,  quite  close,  in  the  midst  of  stately 
gardens  with  terraces  and  trees  and  fountains  and 
banks  of  flowers,  I  saw  a  house,  and — now  indeed 
you  will  laugh — for  so  far  as  I  can  recollect  it,  in 
general  style  it  was  not  unlike  our  own;  that  is  to 
say,  its  architecture  seemed  to  be  more  or  less  Eliza- 
bethan. If  one  who  was  acquainted  with  Elizabethan 
buildings  had  gone  to  that  land  and  built  a  house 
from  memory,  but  with  more  beautiful  materials,  he 
might  have  produced  such  a  one  as  I  imagined  in  my 
dream. 

"Presently  from  the  door  of  the  house  emerged 
two  figures.  One  of  these  was  my  brother  George 
and  the  other,  Barbara,  was  our  baby  grown  to  a 
little  fair-haired  child.  The  child  perceived  me  first 
and  ran  to  me  through  the  flowers.  It  leapt  into  my 
arms  and  kissed  me.  Then  my  brother  came  and 
said — I  do  not  mean  he  spoke,  but  his  meaning  was 
conveyed  to  me: 

:  'You  see,  we  are  making  your  home  ready.  We 
hope  that  you  will  like  it  when  you  come,  but  if  not 
you  can  change  it  as  you  wish/ 

"Then  I  woke  up,  or  went  to  sleep — I  do  not  know 
which." 

Barbara  made  light  o>f  Anthonys  dream,  which 
seemed  to  her  to  be  after  all  but  a  reflection  or  an 
echo  of  earthly  things  tricked  out  with  some  bizarre 
imagination.  Was  not  this  obvious?  This  house? 
A  vague  replica  of  his  own  house.  The  river? 
Something  copied  from  the  Nile,  delta  and  all.  The 


PARTED  287 

waterfalls?  Niagara  on  a  larger  scale.  The  great 
trees?  Doubtless  their  counterparts  grew  in  Amer- 
ica. The  brother  and  the  babe — would  he  not 
naturally  be  thinking  of  his  brother  and  his  babe? 
The  thing  stood  self-convicted.  Echo,  echo,  echo, 
flung  back  in  mockery  of  our  agonised  pleadings 
from  the  cliffs  of  the  Beyond. 

And  yet  this  dream  haunted  her,  especially  as  it 
returned  to  him  more  than  once,  always  with  a  few 
added  details.  They  often  talked  of  this  supernat- 
ural landscape  and  of  the  great  radiant  fan  which 
closed  at  night  and  opened  itself  by  day,  wherewith 
it  was  illuminated.  Barbara  thought  it  strange  that 
Anthony  should  have  imagined  so  splendid  a  thing. 
And  yet  why  should  he  not  have  done  so?  If  she 
could  picture  it  in  her  own  mind,  why  should  he  not 
be  able  to  originate  it  in  his. 

She  told  him  all  this,  only  avoiding  allusions  to 
the  child,  the  baby  Barbara  whom  they  had  lost. 
For  of  this  child,  although  she  longed  to  ask  him 
details  as  to  her  supposed  appearance,  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  speak.  Supposing  that  he  were 
right,  supposing  that  their  daughter  was  really  grow- 
ing up  yonder  towards  some  celestial  womanhood, 
and  waiting  for  him  and  waiting  for  her,  the  mother 
upon  whose  breast  she  had  lain,  the  poor,  bereaved 
mother.  Oh !  then  would  not  all  be  worth  while  ? 

Anthony  listened  and  said  that  he  agreed  with  her ; 
as  a  lawyer  he  had  analysed  the  dream  and  found  in 
it  nothing  at  all.  Nothing  more,  for  instance,  than 
on  analysis  is  to  be  found  in  any  and  every  religion. 

"And  yet,"  he  added,  with  that  pleasant  smile  of 


288       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

his  which  was  beginning  to  grow  so  painfully  sweet 
and  plaintive  in  its  character,  "and  yet,  it  is  very 
odd  how  real  that  landscape  and  that  house  are  be- 
coming to  me.  Do  you  know,  Barbara,  that  the 
other  night  I  seemed  to  be  sitting  in  it  in  a  great  cool 
room,  looking  out  at  the  fiver  and  the  vast  fertile 
plain.  Then  you  came  in,  my  dear,  clad  in  a  beauti- 
ful robe  embroidered  with  violets.  Yes,  you  came  in 
glancing  round  you  timidly  like  one  who  had  lost 
her  way,  and  saw  me  and  cried  aloud/' 

Towards  the  end  Anthony  grew  worse  with  a 
dreadful  swiftness.  He  was  to  have  gone  abroad  as 
usual  that  winter,  but  when  the  time  came  his  state 
was  such  that  the  doctors  shrugged  their  shoulders 
and  said  that  he  might  as  well  stop  at  home  in 
comfort. 

Up  to  the  middle  of  October  he  managed  to  get 
out  upon  the  farm  on  fine  days  and  see  to  the  drilling 
of  the  wheat  and  so  forth.  One  rather  rough  after- 
noon he  went  out  thus,  not  because  he  wished  to,  but 
for  the  sake  of  his  spaniel  dog,  Nell,  which  bothered 
him  to  come  into  the  fresh  air.  Not  finding  some- 
thing that  he  sought,  he  was  drawn  far  afield  and 
caught  in  a  tempest  of  rain  and  wind,  through  which 
he  must  struggle  home.  Barbara  who,  growing 
anxious,  had  gone  to  seek  him,  found  him  leaning 
against  an  oak  unable  to  speak,  with  a  little  stream 
of  blood  trickling  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
Indeed,  it  was  the  dog,  which  seemed  distressed,  that 
discovered  her  and  led  her  to  him. 

This  was  Anthony's  last  outing,  but  he  lived  till 


BARBARA'S  SIN  289 

Christmas  Eve,  his  son's  eighth  birthday.  That 
morning  the  boy  was  brought  into  his  room  to  re- 
ceive some  present  that  his  father  had  procured  for 
him,  and  warned  that  he  must  be  very  quiet.  Quiet, 
however,  he  would  not  be !  his  tumultuous  health  and 
strength  seemed  to  forbid  it.  He  racketed  about  the 
room,  teasing  the  spaniel  which  lay  by  the  side  of 
the  bed,  until  the  patient  beast  growled  at  him  and 
even  bit,  or  pretended  to  bite  him.  Thereon  he  set 
up  such  a  yell  of  pain,  or  anger,  or  both,  that  his 
father  struggled  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the 
matter,  and  so  brought  on  the  haemorrhage  which 
caused  his  death. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  have  trouble  with  that  child, 
Barbara,"  he  gasped  shortly  before  the  end.  "He 
seems  to  be  different  from  either  of  us;  but  he  is 
our  son,  and  I  know  that  you  will  do  your  best  for 
him.  I  leave  him  in  your  keeping.  Good  night, 
dearest,  I  want  to  go  to  sleep." 

Then  he  went  to  sleep,  and  Barbara's  heart  broke. 


CHAPTER  VII 
BARBARA'S  SIN 

THE  months  following  Anthony's  death  were  to 
Barbara  as  a  bad  dream.  Like  one  in  a  dream  she 
saw  that  open,  wintry  grave  beneath  the  tall  church 
tower  about  whose  battlements  the  wind-blown  rooks 
wheeled  on  their  homeward  way.  She  noted  a  little 


290       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

yellow  aconite  that  had  opened  its  bloom  prema- 
turely in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  and  the  sight  of  it 
brought  her  some  kind  of  comfort.  He  had  loved 
aconites  and  planted  many  of  them,  though  because 
of  his  winter  absences  years  had  gone  by  since  he 
had  seen  one  with  his  eyes,  at  any  ratlin  England. 
That  this  flower  among  them  all  should  bloom  on 
that  day  and  in  that  place  seemed  to  her  a  message 
and  a  consolation,  the  only  one  that  she  could  find. 

His  sad  office  over,  her  father  accompanied  her 
home,  pouring  into  her  ear  the  words  of  faith  and 
hope  that  he  was  accustomed  to  use  to  those  broken 
by  bereavement,  and  with  him  came  her  mother. 
But  soon  she  thanked  them  gently  and  bade  them 
leave  her  to  herself.  Then  they  brought  her  son  to 
her,  thinking  that  the  sight  of  him  would  thaw  her 
heart.  For  a  while  the  child  was  quiet  and  subdued, 
for  there  was  that  about  his  mother's  face  which 
awed  him.  At  last,  weary  of  being  still,  he  swung 
round  on  his  heel  after  a  fashion  that  he  had,  and 
said: 

"Cook  says  that  now  father  is  dead  I'm  master 
here,  and  everyone  will  have  to  do  what  I  tell  them." 

Barbara  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  and 
something  in  her  fawn-like  eyes,  a  mute  reproach, 
pierced  to  the  boy's  heart.  At  any  rate,  he  began  to 
whimper  and  left  the  room. 

There  was  little  in  the  remark,  which  was  such 
as  a  vulgar  servant  might  well  make  thoughtlessly. 
Yet  it  brought  home  to  Barbara  the  grim  fact  of 
her  loss  more  completely  perhaps  than  anything  had 
done.  Her  beloved  husband  was  dead,  of  no  more 


BARBARA'S  SIN  291 

account  in  the  world  than  those  who  had  passed 
from  it  at  Eastwich  a  thousand  years  ago.  He  was 
dead,  and  soon  would  be  forgotten  by  all  save  her, 
and  she  was  alone;  in  her  heart  utterly  alone. 

The  summer  came  and  everyone  grew  cheerful. 
Aunt  Thompson  arrived  at  the  Hall  to  stay,  and 
urged  Barbara  to  put  away  past  things  and  resign 
herself  to  the  will  of  Providence — as  she  had  done  in 
the  case  of  the  departed  Samuel. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "it  might  have  been  worse. 
You  might  have  been  called  upon  to  nurse  an  invalid 
for  twenty  years,  and  when  at  last  he  went  have 
found  the  best  part  of  your  life  gone,  as  I  did,"  and 
she  sighed  heavily.  "As  it  is,  you  still  look  quite 
a  girl,  having  kept  your  figure  so  well;  you  are 
comfortably  off  and  have  a  good  position,  and  in 
short  there  is  no  knowing  what  may  happen  in  the 
future.  You  must  come  up  and  stay  with  me  this 
winter,  dear,  instead  of  poking  yourself  away  in  this 
damp  old  house,  where  everybody  seems  to  die  of 
consumption.  Really  it  is  a  sort  of  family  vault, 
and  if  you  stop  here  long  enough  you  will  catch 
something  too." 

Barbara  thanked  her  with  a  sad  little  smile,  and 
answered  that  she  would  think  over  her  kind  invita- 
tion and  write  to  her  later.  But  in  the  end  she  never 
went  to  London,  at  least  not  to  stay,  perhaps  it 
reminded  her  too  vividly  of  her  life  there  with 
Anthony.  At  Eastwich  she  could  bear  such 
memories,  but  for  some  unexplained  reason  it  was 
otherwise  in  London. 


292       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

Indeed,  in  the  course  of  time  her  aunt  gave  up  the 
attempt  to  persuade  her,  and  devoted  herself  to 
forwarding  the  fortunes  of  her  other  pretty  nieces, 
Barbara's  sisters,  two  of  whom,  it  should  be  said, 
already  she  had  settled  comfortably  in  life.  Also 
she  took  a  fancy  to  the  boy,  in  whose  rough,  ener- 
getic nature  she  found  something  akin  to  her  own. 

"I  am  sick  of  women,"  she  said;  "it  is  a  comfort 
to  have  to  do  with  a  male  thing." 

So  it  came  about  that  after  he  went  to  school 
young  Anthony  spent  a  large  share  of  his  holidays 
at  his  great-aunt's  London  house.  It  may  be  added 
that  he  got  no  good  from  these  visits,  since  Lady 
Thompson  spoilt  him  and  let  him  have  his  way  in 
everything.  Also  she  gave  him  more  money  than 
a  boy  ought  to  have.  As  a  result,  or  partly  so, 
Barbara  found  that  her  son  grew  more  and  more 
uncontrollable.  He  mixed  with  grooms  and  low 
characters,  and  when  checked  flew  into  fits  of  pas- 
sion which  frightened  her. 

Oddly  enough,  during  these  paroxysms,  which 
were  generally  followed  by  two  or  three  days  of 
persistent  sulking,  the  only  person  who  seemed  to 
have  any  effective  control  over  him  was  a  certain 
under-housemaid  named  Bess  Catton,  the  daughter 
of  a  small  farmer  in  the  neighbourhood.  This  girl, 
who  was  only  about  three  years  older  than  Anthony, 
was  remarkable  for  her  handsome  appearance  and 
vigour  of  body  and  mind.  Her  hair  and  large  eyes 
were  so  dark  that  probably  the  local  belief  that  she 
had  gipsy  or  other  foreign  blood  in  her  veins  was 
true.  Her  complexion,  however,  was  purely  English, 


BARBARA'S  SIN  293 

and  her  character  had  all  the  coarseness  of  those  who 
have  lived  for  generations  in  the  Fens,  whence 
her  father  came,  uncontrolled  by  higher  influences, 
such  as  the  fellowship  of  gentle-bred  and  educated 
folk. 

Bess  was  an  excellent  and  capable  servant,  one, 
moreover,  who  soon  obtained  a  sort  of  mastery  in 
the  household.  On  a  certain  occasion  the  young 
Squire,  as  they  called  him,  was  in  one  of  the  worst 
of  his  rages,  having  been  forbidden  by  his  mother 
to  go  to  a  coursing  meeting  which  he  wished  to 
attend.  In  this  state  he  shut  himself  up  in  the 
library,  swearing  that  he  would  do  a  mischief  to 
anyone  who  came  near  him,  a  promise  which,  being 
very  strong  for  his  years,  he  was  quite  capable  of 
keeping.  The  man-servant  was  told  to  go  in  and 
bring  him  out,  but  hung  back. 

"Bless  you,"  said  Bess,  "I  ain't  afraid,"  and  with- 
out hesitation  walked  into  the  room  and  shut  the 
door  behind  her. 

Barbara,  listening  afar  off,  heard  a  shout  of  "Get 
out !"  followed  by  a  fearful  crash,  and  trembled,  for 
all  violence  was  abominable  to  her  nature. 

"He  will  injure  that  poor  girl,"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  rose,  proposing  to  enter  the  library  and  face  her 
son. 

As  she  hurried  down  the  long  Elizabethan  cor- 
ridor, however,  she  heard  another  sound  that  came 
to  her  through  an  open  window,  that  of  Anthony 
laughing  in  his  jolliest  and  most  uproarious  manner 
and  of  the  housemaid,  Bess,  laughing  with  him.  She 
stayed  where  she  was  and  listened.  Bess  had  left 


294       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

the  library  and  was  coming  across  the  courtyard, 
where  one  of  the  other  servants  met  her  and  asked 
some  question  that  Barbara  did  not  catch.  The 
answer  in  Bess's  ringing  voice  was  clear  enough. 

"Lord!"  she  said,  "they  always  gave  me  the  wild 
colts  to  break  upon  the  farm.  It  is  a  matter  of  eye 
and  handling,  that's  all.  He  nearly  got  me  with  that 
plaster  thing,  so  I  went  for  him  and  boxed  his  ears 
till  he  was  dazed.  Then  I  kissed  him  afterwards  till 
he  laughed,  and  he'll  never  be  any  more  trouble,  at 
least  with  me.  That  mother  of  his  don't  know  how 
to  manage  him.  She's  another  breed." 

"Yes,"  said  the  questioner,  "the  mistress  is  a  lady, 
she  is,  and  gentle  like  the  squire  who's  gone.  But 
how  did  they  get  such  a  one  as  Master  Anthony?" 

"Don't  know,"  replied  Bess,  "but  father  says  that 
when  he  was  a  boy  in  the  Fens  they'd  have  told  that 
the  fairy  folk  changed  him  at  birth.  Anyway,  I 
like  him  well  enough,  for  he  suits  me." 

Barbara  went  back  to  her  sitting-room,  where  not 
long  afterwards  the  boy  came  to  her.  As  he  entered 
the  doorway  she  noted  how  handsome  he  looked 
with  his  massive  head  and  square-jawed  face,  and 
how  utterly  unlike  any  Arnott  or  Walrond  known 
to  her  personally  or  by  tradition.  Had  he  been  a 
changeling,  such  as  the  girl  Bess  spoke  of,  he  could 
not  have  seemed  more  different. 

He  came  and  stood  before  her,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  a  smile  upon  his  face,  for  he  could  smile 
very  pleasantly  when  he  chose. 

"Well,  Anthony,"  she  said,  "what  is  it?" 

"Nothing,  mother  dear,  except  that  I  have  come 


BARBARA'S  SIN  295 

to  beg  your  pardon.  You  were  quite  right  about 
the  coursing  meeting;  they  are  a  low  lot,  and  I 
oughtn't  to  mix  with  them.  But  I  had  bets  on  some 
of  the  dogs  and  wanted  to  go  awfully.  Then  when 
you  said  I  mustn't  I  lost  my  temper." 

"That  was  very  evident,  Anthony." 

"Yes,  mother ;  I  felt  as  though  I  could  have  killed 
someone.  I  did  try  to  kill  Bess  with  that  bust  of 
Plato,  but  she  dodged  like  a  cat  and  the  thing 
smashed  against  the  wall.  Then  she  came  for  me 
straight  and  gave  me  what  I  deserved,  for  she  was 
too  many  for  me.  And  presently  all  my  rage  went, 
and  I  found  that  I  was  laughing  while  she  tidied  my 
clothes.  I  wish  you  could  do  the  same,  mother." 

"Do  you,  Anthony?    Well,  I  cannot." 

"I  know.  Where  did  I  get  my  temper  from, 
mother?  Not  from  you,  or  my  father  from  all  I 
have  heard  and  remember  of  him." 

"Your  grandfather  would  say  it  was  from  the 
devil,  Anthony." 

"Yes,  and  perhaps  he  is  right;  only  then  it  is 
rather  hard  luck  on  me,  isn't  it  ?  I  can't  help  it — it 


comes." 


"Then  make  it  go,  Anthony.  You  are  to  be  con- 
firmed soon.  Change  your  heart." 

"I'll  try.  But,  mother  dear,  though  I  am  so  bad 
to  you,  you  are  the  only  one  who  will  ever  change 
me.  When  that  wild-cat  of  a  girl  got  the  better  of 
me  just  now,  it  was  you  I  thought  of,  not  her.  If  I 
lost  you  I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  me." 

"We  have  to  stand  or  fall  alone,  Anthony." 

"Perhaps,  mother.     I  don't  know;  I  am  not  old 


296       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

enough.  Still,  don't  leave  me  alone,  for  if  you  do, 
then  I  am  sure  which  I  shall  do/'  and  bending  down 
he  kissed  her  and  left  the  room. 

After  this  scene  Anthony's  behaviour  improved 
very  much;  his  reports  from  school  were  good,  for 
he  was  quick  and  clever,  and  his  great  skill  in 
athletics  made  him  a  favourite.  Also  his  grand- 
father, who  prepared  him  for  confirmation,  an- 
nounced that  the  lad's  nature  seemed  to  have 
softened. 

So  things  remained  for  some  time,  to  be  accurate, 
for  just  so  long  as  the  girl  Bess  was  a  servant  at  the 
Hall. 

Anthony  might  talk  about  his  mother's  influence 
over  him,  and  without  doubt  when  he  was  in  his 
normal  state  this  was  considerable.  Also  it  served 
to  prevent  him  from  breaking  out.  But  when  he 
did  break  out,  Bess  Catton  alone  could  deal  with  him. 
Naturally  it  would  be  thought  that  there  was  some 
mutual  attraction  between  these  young  people.  Yet 
this  was  not  so,  at  any  rate  on  the  part  of  the  girl, 
who  had  been  overheard  to  tell  Anthony  to  his  face 
that  she  hated  the  sight  of  him  and  "would  cut  him 
to  ribbons"  if  she  were  his  mother. 

At  any  rate,  there  were  others,  or  one  other,  of 
whom  Bess  did  not  hate  the  sight,  and  in  the  end 
her  behaviour  caused  such  scandal  that  Barbara  was 
obliged  to  send  her  out  of  the  house. 

"All  right,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "I'll  go,  and  be  glad 
of  a  change.  You  may  ring  your  own  bull-calf  now 
and  I  wish  you  joy  of  the  job,  since  there's  none  but 
me  can  lead  him." 


BARBARA'S  SIN  297 

A  few  days  later  Anthony  returned  from  school. 
With  him  came  a  letter  from  the  head  master,  who 
wrote  that  he  did  not  wish  to  make  any  scandal,  and 
therefore  had  not  expelled  the  boy.  Still,  he  would 
be  obliged  if  his  mother  would  refrain  from  sending 
him  back,  as  he  did  not  consider  him  a  suitable  mem- 
ber of  a  public  school.  He  suggested,  in  the  lad's 
own  interest,  that  it  might  be  wise  to  place  him  in 
some  establishment  where  a  speciality  was  made  of 
the  training  of  unruly  youths.  He  added  that  he 
wrote  this  with  the  more  regret  since  Anthony's 

father  and  grandfather  had  been  scholars  at in 

their  day,  and  her  son  possessed  no  mean  intellectual 
abilities.  This  would  be  shown  by  the  fact  that  he 
was  at  the  head  of  his  class,  and  might  doubtless 
under  other  circumstances  have  risen  to  a  high  place 
in  the  sixth  form. 

Then  followed  the  details  of  his  misdoings,  of 
which  one  need  only  be  mentioned.  He  had  fought 
another  boy,  who,  it  may  be  added,  was  older  than 
himself,  and  beaten  him.  But  the  matter  did  not  end 
there,  since  after  his  adversary  had  given  up  the  fight 
Anthony  flew  at  him  and  maltreated  him  so  feroci- 
ously before  they  could  be  separated,  that  for  a  while 
the  poor  lad  was  actually  in  danger  of  collapse. 

When  reproached  he  expressed  no  penitence,  but 
said  only  he  wished  that  he  had  killed  him.  This  he 
repeated  to  his  mother's  face ;  moreover,  he  was  furi- 
ous when  he  found  that  Bess  Catton  had  been  sent 
away  and  demanded  her  return.  When  told  that  this 
was  impossible  he  announced  quietly  that  he  would 
make  the  place  a  hell,  and  kept  his  word. 


298       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

For  a  year  or  more  before  this  date  Barbara  had 
not  been  well.  She  suffered  from  persistent  colds 
which  she  was  unable  to  shake  off,  and  with  these 
came  great  depression  of  spirit.  Now  in  her  misery 
the  poor  woman  went  to  her  room,  and  falling  on  her 
knees  prayed  with  all  her  heart  that  she  might  die. 
The  burden  laid  upon  her  was  more  than  she  could 
bear.  Only  one  consolation  could  she  find,  that  her 
beloved  husband  had  not  lived  to  share  it,  for  she 
knew  it  would  have  crushed  him  as  it  crushed  her. 

Her  father  was  now  very  old,  and  so  feeble  that 
everyone  screened  him  from  trouble  so  far  as  might 
be.  But  this  particular  trouble  could  not  be  hid,  and 
Barbara  told  him  all. 

"Do  not  give  way,  my  dearest  daughter,"  he  said, 
"and  above  all  do  not  seek  to  fly  from  your  trial, 
which  doubtless  is  sent  to  you  for  some  good  purpose. 
Troubles  that  we  strive  to  escape  nearly  always  recoil 
upon  our  heads,  whereas  if  they  are  faced,  often  they 
melt  away.  If  you  remain  in  the  world  to  watch  and 
help  him,  your  son's  nature,  bad  as  it  seems  to  be, 
may  yet  alter,  for  after  all  I  know  that  he  loves  you. 
But  if  you  give  up  and  leave  the  world,  who  can  tell 
what  will  happen  to  him  when  he  is  quite  uncon- 
trolled and  in  possession  of  his  fortune?" 

Barbara  recognised  the  truth  of  her  father's  words, 
and  while  he  lived  tried  to  act  up  to  them.  But  as  it 
happened  Mr.  Walrond  did  not  live  long,  for  one 
evening  he  was  found  dead  in  the  church,  whither  he 
often  went  to  pray. 

About  this  time  the  doctors  told  Barbara  that  her 
condition  of  health  was  somewhat  serious.  It  seemed 


BARBARA'S  SIN  299 

that  her  lungs  also  showed  signs  of  being  affected. 
Perhaps  she  had  contracted  the  disease  from  her  hus- 
band, and  now  that  she  was  so  broken  in  spirit,  it  as- 
serted itself.  They  added,  however,  that  if  she  took 
certain  precautions,  and  above  all  went  away  from 
Eastwich,  there  was  every  reason  to  hope  that  she 
would  quite  recover  her  health. 

In  the  end  Barbara  did  not  go  away.  At  the  time 
Anthony  was  being  instructed  by  a  tutor  who  resided 
at  the  Hall  to  prepare  him  for  the  University  and 
ultimately  for  the  Army.  Needless  to  say,  she  was 
employed  continually  in  trying  to  compose  the  differ- 
enes  between  him  and  this  tutor.  How  then  could 
she  go  away  and  leave  that  poor  gentleman  and  her 
old  mother,  who  when  she  was  not  staying  with  one 
of  her  other  married  daughters  now  made  her  home 
at  the  Hall? 

Thus  she  argued  to  herself,  but  the  truth  was  that 
she  did  not  wish  to  go.  Her  dearest  associations 
were  in  the  churchyard  yonder,  the  churchyard  where 
she  hoped  ere  long  she  would  be  laid.  She  hated  life, 
she  sought  and  craved  for  death.  This  was  her  sin. 

Night  by  night  she  lay  awake  and  thought  of  An- 
thony, her  darling,  her  beloved.  She  remembered 
that  dream  o*f  his  about  a  home  that  awaited  him  in 
another  world,  and  she  loved  to  fancy  him  as 
dwelling  in  that  place  of  peace  and  making  ready  for 
her  coming. 

Nobody  thought  of  him  now  except  herself  and  his 
old  dog  Nell.  The  dog  thought  of  him,  she  was  sure, 
for  it  would  sleep  beneath  his  empty  bed,  and  at  times 
sit  up,  look  at  it  and  whine.  Then  it  would  come  and 


300       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

rest  its  head  upon  her  as  she  slept,  and  she  would 
wake  to  find  it  looking  at  her  with  a  question  in  its 
eyes.  One  night  in  the  darkness  it  did  this,  then  left 
her  and  broke  into  a  joyous  whimpering,  such  as  it 
used  to  make  when  its  master  was  going  to  take  it 
out.  She  even  heard  it  jumping  up  as  though  to  paw 
at  him,  and  wondered  dreamily  what  it  could  mean. 
When  she  woke  in  the  morning  she  saw  the  poor 
beast  lying  stiff  and  cold  upon  the  bed  that  had  been 
Anthony's,  and  though  she  wept  over  it,  her  tears 
were  perhaps  those  of  envy  rather  than  of  sorrow, 
for  she  was  sure  that  it  had  found  Anthony. 

More  and  more  Barbara  threw  out  her  soul  to- 
wards Anthony.  Across  the  void  of  Nothingness  she 
sent  it  travelling,  nor  did  it  return  with  empty  hands. 
Something  of  Anthony  had  greeted  it,  though  she 
could  not  remember  the  greeting,  had  spoken  with  it, 
though  she  could  not  interpret  the  words.  Of  this  at 
least  she  was  sure,  she  had  been  near  to  Anthony. 

Once  she  seemed  to  see  him.  In  the  infinite,  in- 
finite distance,  millions  of  miles  away,  the  sky  opened 
as  it  were.  There  in  the  opening  was  Anthony  talk- 
ing with  one  whom  she  knew  for  their  daughter,  the 
baby  that  had  died,  talking  of  her.  In  a  minute  they 
were  gone,  but  she  had  seen  them,  she  was  sure  that 
she  had  seen  them,  and  the  knowledge  warmed  her 
heart. 

So  there  was  no  error,  the  Bible  was  true,  more  or 
less;  Faith  was  not  built  on  running  water  or  on 
sand.  Life  was  not  a  mere  hellish  mockery,  where 
tiaras  turned  to  crowns  of  thorn  and  joy  was  but  an 


BARBARA'S  SIN  301 

inch  rule  by  which  to  measure  the  alps  of  human 
pain.  Life  was  a  door,  a  gateway.  The  door  dread- 
ful, the  gate  perilous,  if  you  will,  but  beyond  it  lay  no 
dream,  no  empty  blackness.  Beyond  it  stretched  the 
Promised  Land  peopled  with  the  lost  who  soon  would 
be  found. 

Barbara's  last  illness  was  rapid.  When  she  began 
to  go  she  went  swiftly. 

"Can't  you  save  her?"  asked  her  son  of  one  of  the 
doctors. 

"The  disease  has  gone  too  far,"  he  answered. 
"Moreover,  it  is  impossible  to  save  one  who  seeks  to 
die." 

"Why  does  she  seek  to  die?"  blurted  Anthony, 
glaring  at  him. 

"Perhaps,  young  gentleman,  you  are  in  a  better 
position  to  answer  that  question  than  I  am,"  replied 
the  doctor,  who  knew  of  Anthony's  cruel  conduct  to 
his  mother  and  had  reproached  him  with  it,  not  once 
but  on  several  occasions. 

"You  mean  that  I  have  killed  her,"  said  Anthony 
savagely. 

"No,"  replied  the  doctor,  "she  is  dying  of  tuber- 
culosis of  the  lungs.  What  were  the  primary  causes 
which  induced  that  disease  I  cannot  be  sure.  All  I 
said  was  that  she  appears  to  welcome  it,  or  rather  its 
issue.  And  I  will  add  this  on  my  own  account,  that 
when  she  does  die  the  world  will  lose  one  of  the 
sweetest  women  that  ever  walked  upon  it.  Good 
morning." 

"I  know  what  he  means,"  said  Anthony  to  himself, 


302       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

as  he  watched  the  retreating  form.  "He  means  that 
I  have  murdered  her,  and  perhaps  I  have.  She  is 
sick  of  me  and  wants  to  get  back  to  my  father,  who 
was  so  different.  That's  why  she  won't  go  on  living 
when  she  might.  She  is  committing  suicide — of  a 
holy  sort.  Well,  what  made  me  a  brute  and  her  an 
angel  ?  And  when  she's  gone  how  will  the  brute  get 
on  without  the  angel?  Why  should  I  be  filled  with 
fury  and  wickedness  and  she  of  whom  I  was  born 
with  sweetness  and  light?  Let  God  or  the  devil 
answer  that  if  they  can.  My  mother,  oh  I  my 
mother !"  and  this  violent,  sinister  youth  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  wept. 

Barbara  sank  down  and  down  into  a  very  whirl- 
pool of  nothingness.  Bending  over  it,  as  it  were,  she 
saw  the  face  of  her  aged  mother,  the  faces  of  some  of 
her  dear  sisters,  the  face  of  the  kindly  doctor,  and 
lastly  the  agonised  face  of  her  handsome  son. 

"Mother !  Don't  leave  me,  mother.  Mother !  for 
God's  sake  come  back  to  me,  mother,  or  we  shall 
never  meet  again.  Come  back  to  save  me !" 

These  were  the  last  words  that  Barbara  heard. 


THE  ATONEMENT  303 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  ATONEMENT 

Now  these  are  the  things  that  seemed  to  happen  to 
Barbara  after  her  earthly  death.  Or  rather  some  of 
the  things,  for  most  of  them  have  faded  away  and 
been  lost  to  her  mortal  memory. 

Consciousness  returned  to  her,  but  at  first  it  was 
consciousness  in  an  utter  dark.  Everywhere  was 
blackness,  and  in  it  she  was  quite  alone.  The  whole 
universe  seemed  to  centre  in  her  solitary  soul.  Still 
she  felt  no  fear,  only  a  kind  of  wonder  at  this  infinite 
blank  through  which  she  was  being  borne  for  mil- 
lions and  millions  of  miles. 

Lights  began  to  shine  in  the  blackness  like  to  those 
of  passing  ships  upon  a  midnight  sea.  Now  she  was 
at  rest,  and  the  rest  was  long  and  sweet.  Every  fear 
and  sad  thought,  every  sensation  of  pain  or  discom- 
fort left  her.  Peace  flowed  into  her. 

Presently  she  became  aware  of  a  weight  upon  her 
knee,  and  wondered  by  what  it  could  be  caused,  for 
it  reminded  her  of 'something;  became  aware  also  that 
there  was  light  about  her.  At  length  her  eyes  opened 
and  she  perceived  the  light,  though  dimly,  and  that 
it  was  different  to  any  she  had  known,  purer,  more 
radiant.  She  perceived  also  that  she  lay  upon  a  low 
couch,  and  that  the  weight  upon  her  knee  was  caused 
by  something  shaped  like  the  head  of  a  dog.  Nay, 
it  was  the  head  of  a  dog,  and  one  she  knew  well,  An- 


304       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

thony's  dog,  that  had  died  upon  his  bed.  Now  she 
was  sure  that  she  dreamed,  and  in  her  dream  she 
tried  to  speak  to  the  dog.  The  words  that  her  mind 
formed  were : 

"Nell !  Is  that  you,  Nell  ?  "but  she  could  not  utter 
them. 

Still  they  were  answered,  for  it  appeared  to  her 
that  the  dog  thought,  and  that  she  could  read  its 
thought,  which  was : 

"Yes,  it  is  I,  who  though  but  a  dog,  having  been 
the  last  to  leave  you,  am  allowed  to  be  the  first  to 
greet  you,"  and  it  lifted  its  head  and  looked  at  her 
with  eyes  full  of  a  wonderful  love. 

Her  heart  went  out  towards  the  faithful  beast  in 
a  kind  of  rapture,  and  her  intelligence  formed  an- 
other question,  it  was : 

"Where  am  I,  and  if  you,  a  creature,  are  here, 
where  are  the  others  ?" 

"Be  patient.  I  only  watch  you  till  they  come,"  was 
the  answer. 

"Till  they  come.    Till  who  come  ?"  she  murmured. 

Something  within  told  her  to  inquire  no  more. 
But  oh !  was  it  possible — was  the  earth  dream  coming 
true? 

A  long  while  went  by.  She  looked  about  her,  and 
understood  that  she  was  lying  in  a  great  and  beauti- 
ful room  beneath  a  dome  which  seemed  to  be  fash- 
ioned of  translucent  ivory  or  alabaster.  At  the  end 
of  the  room  were  curtains  woven  of  some  glittering 
stuff  that  gave  out  light.  At  length  these  curtains 
were  drawn,  and  through  them,  bearing  a  cup  in  her 
hand,  passed  a  shape  like  to  that  of  a  mortal  woman, 


THE  ATONEMENT  305 

only  so  radiant  that  Barbara  knew  that  had  she  been 
alive  with  the  old  life  she  would  have  felt  afraid. 

This  shape  also  was  clad  in  garments  that  gave 
out  light,  and  in  its  hair  were  jewelled  flowers.  It 
glided  to  her  side  and  looked  at  her  with  loving,  mys- 
terious eyes.  Then  it  held  the  cup  to  her  lips  and 
said,  or  rather  thought,  for  the  speech  of  that  land 
declared  itself  in  thought  and  vision : 

"Drink  of  this  new  wine." 

She  drank  of  the  wine,  and  a  wonderful  life  fell 
upon  her  like  a  glory. 

"Who  are  you,  O  Vision?"  she  asked,  and  by  way 
of  answer  there  rose  up  within  her  a  picture  of  her- 
self, Barbara,  leaning  over  a  cot  and  looking  at  the 
white  face  of  a  dead  child  in  a  certain  room  in  Lon- 
don. Then  she  knew  that  this  was  her  daughter,  and 
stretched  out  her  arms  towards  her  and  received  her 
in  her  arms. 

Presently  she  looked  again,  and  there  around  the 
bed  appeared  four  other  shapes  of  beauty. 

"You  have  forgotten  us,  Barbara,"  said  one  of 
them,  "but  we  are  your  sisters  who  died  in  infancy." 

For  the  third  time  she  looked,  and  behold !  kneel- 
ing at  her  side,  just  as  he  had  been  found  kneeling  in 
the  church,  was  her  adored  father,  grown  more 
young.  Once  more  she  looked,  and  last  of  all, 
breathing  ineffable  love,  came  her  lost  darling,  An- 
thony himself. 

From  heart  to  heart  flashed  their  swift  thoughts, 
like  lightnings  from  cloud  to  cloud,  till  all  her  being 
was  a  very  sea  of  joy.  Now  the  great  room  was  full 
of  presences,  and  now  the  curtains  were  gone  and  all 


306       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

space  beyond  was  full  of  presences,  and  from  that 
glorious  company  of  a  sudden  there  arose  a  song  of 
welcome  and  beneath  the  burden  of  its  sweetness  she 
swooned  to  sleep. 

Barbara  dwelt  in  joy  with  those  she  loved  and 
learned  many  things.  She  learned  that  this  sweet 
new  life  of  hers  was  what  she  had  fashioned  on  the 
earth  with  her  prayers  and  strivings ;  that  the  seeds 
of  love  and  suffering  sown  in  the  world's  rank  soil 
had  here  blossomed  to  this  perfect  flower.  Now  she 
knew  what  was  meant  by  the  saying  that  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven  is  within  you,  and  by  the  other  saying 
that  as  man  sows  so  shall  he  reap.  She  learned  that 
in  this  world  beyond  the  world,  and  that  yet  itself 
was  but  a  rung  in  the  ladder  of  many  universes,  up 
which  ladder  all  souls  must  climb  to  the  ultimate 
judgment,  there  was  sorrow  as  well  as  bliss,  there- 
were  both  suffering  and  delight. 

Here  the  sinful  were  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
naked  horror  of  their  sins,  and  from  it  fled  wailing 
and  aghast.  Here  the  cruel,  the  covetous,  the  lustful 
and  the  liar  were  as  creatures  dragged  from  black 
caverns  of  darkness  into  the  burning  light  of  day. 
These  yearned  back  to  their  darkness  and  attained 
sometimes  to  other  coverings  of  a  mortal  flesh,  or  to 
some  land  of  which  she  had  no  knowledge.  For  such 
was  their  fate  if  in  them  there  was  no  spark  of  re- 
pentant spirit  that  in  this  new  world  could  be  fanned 
to  flame. 

Upwards  or  downwards,  such  is  the  law  of  a  uni- 
verse in  which  nothing  can  stand  still.  Up  from  the 


THE  ATONEMENT  307 

earth  which  Barbara  had  left  came  the  spirit  shape  of 
all  that  lived  and  could  die,  even  to  that  of  the  flower. 
But  down  to  the  earth  it  seemed  that  much  of  it  was 
whirled  again,  to  ascend  once  more  in  an  age  to 
come,  since  though  the  stream  of  life  pulses  contin- 
ally  forward,  it  has  its  backwash  and  its  eddies. 

Barbara  learned  that  though  it  is  blessed  to  die 
young  and  sinless,  like  to  that  glorious  child  of  hers 
with  whom  she  walked  in  this  heavenly  creation, 
and  whose  task  it  was  to  instruct  in  its  simpler 
mysteries,  to  live  and  to  repent  is  yet  more  blessed. 
In  this  life  or  in  that  all  have  sinned,  but  not  all  have 
repented,  and  therefore,  it  appeared  to  Barbara, 
again  and  again  such  must  know  the  burden  of  the 
flesh. 

Also  she  saw  many  wonders  and  learned  many 
secrets  of  that  vast,  spiritual  universe  into  which  this 
world  of  ours  pours  itself  day  by  day.  But  if  she 
remembers  anything  of  these  she  cannot  tell  of  them. 

Oh !  happy  was  her  life  with  Anthony,  for  there, 
though  now  sex  as  we  know  it  had  ceased  to  be, 
spirit  grew  ever  closer  unto  spirit,  and  as  below  they 
dreamed  and  hoped,  their  union  had  indeed  become 
an  altar  on  which  Love's  perfect  fire  flamed  an  offer- 
ing to  Heaven.  Happy,  too,  was  her  communion 
with  those  other  souls  that  had  been  mingled  in  her 
lot,  and  with  many  more  whom  she  had  known  afore- 
time and  elsewhere  and  long  forgotten.  For  Bar- 
bara learned  that  life  is  an  ancient  story  of  which  we 
spell  out  the  chapters  one  by  one. 

Yet  amidst  all  this  joy  and  all  the  blessed  labours 
of  a  hallowed  world  in  which  idleness  was  not 


308       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

known,  nor  any  weariness  in  well-doing,  a  certain 
shadow  met  Barbara  whichever  way  she  turned. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Anthony,  who  felt  her 
trouble. 

"Our  son,"  she  answered,  and  showed  him  all  the 
tale,  or  so  much  of  it  as  he  did  not  know,  ending, 
"And  I  chose  to  leave  him  that  I  might  take  my 
chance  of  finding  you.  I  died  when  I  might  have 
lived  on  if  I  had  so  willed.  That  is  my  sin  and  it 
haunts  me." 

"We  are  not  the  parents  of  his  soul,  which  is  as 
ancient  as  our  own,  Barbara." 

"No,  but  for  a  while  it  was  given  into  my  hand 
and  I  deserted  it,  and  now  I  am  afraid.  How  can 
I  tell  what  has  chanced  to  the  soul  of  this  son  of 
ours?  Here  there  is  no  time.  I  know  not  if  I  bade 
it  farewell  yesterday  or  ten  thousand  years  ago. 
Long,  long  since  it  may  have  passed  through  this 
world,  where  it  would  seem  we  dwell  only  with  those 
whom  we  seek  or  who  seek  us.  Or  it  may  abide  upon 
the  earth  and  there  grow  foul  and  hateful.  Let  us 
search  out  the  truth,  Anthony.  There  are  those  who 
can  open  its  gates  to  us  if  the  aim  be  pure  and  good." 

"After  I  died,  Barbara,  I  strove  to  learn  how 
things  went  with  you,  and  strove  in  vain." 

"Not  altogether,  Anthony,  for  sometimes  you 
were  very  near  to  me,  or  so  I  dreamed.  Moreover, 
the  case  was  different." 

"Those  who  search  sometimes  find  more  than  they 
seek,  Barbara." 

"Doubtless.  Still,  it  is  laid  on  me.  Something 
drives  me  on." 


THE  ATONEMENT  309 

So  by  the  means  appointed  they  sought  to  know 
the  truth  as  to  this  son  of  theirs,  and  it  was  decreed 
that  the  truth  should  be  shown  to  them. 

In  a  dream,  a  vision,  or  perchance  in  truth — which 
they  never  knew — they  were  drawn  to  the  world 
that  they  had  left,  and  the  reek  of  its  sins  and 
miseries  pierced  them  like  a  spear. 

They  stood  in  the  streets  of  London  near  to  a 
certain  fantastic  gateway  that  was  familiar  to  them, 
the  gateway  of  "The  Gardens."  From  within  came 
sounds  of  music  and  revelling,  for  the  season  was 
that  of  summer.  A  woman  descended  from  a  car- 
riage. She  was  .finely  dressed,  dark  and  handsome. 
Barbara  knew  her  at  once  for  the  girl  Bess  Catton, 
who  alone  could  control  her  son  in  his  rages  and 
whom  she  had  dismissed  for  her  bad  conduct.  She 
entered  the  place  and  they  entered  with  her,  although 
she  saw  them  not.  Bess  sat  down,  and  presently 
a  man  whom  she  seemed  to  know  drew  out  of  the 
throng  and  spoke  to  her.  He  was  a  tall  man  of 
middle  age,  with  heavy  eyes.  Looking  into  his 
heart,  they  saw  that  it  was  stained  with  evil.  The 
soul  within  him  lay  asleep,  wrapped  round  with  the 
webs  of  sin.  This  man  said : 

"We  are  going  to  have  a  merry  supper,  Bess. 
Come  and  join  us." 

"I'd  like  to  well  enough,"  she  answered,  "for  I'm 
tired  of  my  grand  life;  it's  too  respectable.  But 
suppose  .that  Anthony  came  along.  He's  my  lawful 
spouse,  you  know.  We  had  words  and  I  told  him 
where  I  was  going." 

"Oh,  we'll  risk  your  Anthony !    Forget  your  mar- 


310       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

riage  ring  and  have  a  taste  of  the  good  old  times." 

"All  right.  I'm  not  afraid  of  Anthony,  never  was, 
but  others  are.  Well,  it's  your  look-out." 

She  went  with  the  man  to  a  pavilion  where  food 
was  served,  and  accompanied  him  to  a  room  sep- 
arated by  curtains  from  the  main  hall.  It  had  open 
windows  which  looked  out  on  to  the  illuminated 
garden  and  the  dancing.  In  this  room,  seated  round 
a  table,  was  a  company  of  women  gaudily  dressed 
and  painted,  and  with  them  were  men.  One  of  these 
was  a  mere  boy  now  being  drawn  into  evil  for  the 
first  time,  and  Barbara  grieved  for  him. 

These  welcomed  the  woman  Bess  and  her  com- 
panion noisily,  and  made  room  for  them  in  seats  near 
to  the  window.  Then  the  meal  began,  a  costly  meal 
at  which  not  much  was  eaten  but  a  great  deal  was 
drunk.  The  revellers  grew  excited  with  wine;  they 
made  jests  and  told  doubtful  stories. 

Barbara's  son  Anthony  entered  unobserved  and 
stood  with  his  back  against  the  curtains.  He  was  a 
man  now,  tall,  powerful,  and  in  his  way  handsome, 
with  hair  of  a  chestnut  red.  Just  then  he  who  had 
brought  Bess  to  the  supper  threw  his  arm  about  her 
and  kissed  her,  whereat  she  laughed  and  the  others 
laughed  also. 

Anthony  sprang  forward.  The  table  was  over- 
thrown. He  seized  the  man  and  shook  him.  Then 
he  struck  him  in  the  face  and  hurled  him  through 
the  open  window  to  the  path  below.  For  a  few 
seconds  the  man  lay  there,  then  rose  and  ran  till 
presently  he  vanished  beneath  the  shadow  of  some 
trees.  There  was  tumult  and  confusion  in  the  room ; 


THE  ATONEMENT  311 

servants  rushed  in,  and  one  of  the  men,  he  who 
seemed  to  be  the  host,  talked  with  them  and  offered 
them  money.  The  woman  Bess  began  to  revile  her 
husband. 

He  took  her  by  the  arm  and  said : 

"Will  you  follow  that  fellow  through  the  window, 
or  will  you  come  with  me  ?" 

Glancing  at  him,  she  saw  something  in  his  face 
that  made  her  silent.  Then  they  went  away  together. 

The  scene  changed.  Barbara  knew  that  now  she 
saw  her  Aunt  Thompson's  London  house.  In  that 
drawing-room  where  she  had  parted  from  Mr. 
Russell,  her  son  and  his  wife  stood  face  to  face. 

"How  dare  you  ?"  she  gasped  through  her  set  lips, 
glaring  at  him  with  fierce  eyes. 

"How  dare  you?"  he  answered.  "Did  I  marry 
you  for  this?  I  have  given  you  everything,  my 
name,  the  wealth  my  old  aunt  left  to  me;  you,  you, 
the  peasant's  child,  the  evil  woman  whom  I  tried  to 
lift  up  because  I  loved  you  from  the  first." 

"Then  you  were  a  fool  for  your  pains,  for  such  as 
I  can't  be  lifted  up." 

"And  you,"  he  went  on,  unheeding,  "go  back  to 
your  mire  and  the  herd  of  your  fellow-swine.  You 
ask  me  how  I  dare.  Go  on  with  these  ways,  and 
I  tell  you  I'll  dare  a  good  deal  more  before  I've 
done.  I'll  be  rid  of  you  if  I  must  break  your  neck 
and  hang  for  it." 

"You  can't  be  rid  of  me.  I'm  your  lawful  wife, 
and  you  can  prove  nothing  against  me  since  I  mar- 
ried. Do  you  think  I  want  to  be  such  a  one  as  that 


312       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

mother  of  yours,  to  have  children  and  mope  myself 
to  the  grave — " 

"You'd  best  leave  my  mother  out  of  it,  or  by  the 
devil  that  made  you  I'll  send  you  after  her.  Keep 
her  name  off  your  vile  lips." 

"Why  should  I  ?  What  good  did  she  ever  do  you  ? 
She  pretended  to  be  such  a  saint,  but  she  hated  you, 
and  small  wonder,  seeing  what  you  were.  Why  she 
even  died  to  be  rid  of  you.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  it, 
and  you  told  me  as  much  yourself.  If  my  child  is 
ever  born  I  hope  for  your  sake  it  will  be  such  another 
as  you  are,  or  as  I  am.  You  can  take  your  choice," 
and  with  a  glare  of  hate  she  rushed  from  the  room. 

On  a  table  near  the  fireplace  stood  spirits.  The 
maddened  husband  went  to  them,  filled  a  tumbler 
half  full  of  brandy,  added  a  little  water  and  drank 
it  off. 

He  poured  more  brandy  into  the  glass  and  began 
to  think.  To  Barbara  his  mind  was  as  an  open  book 
and  she  read  what  was  passing  there.  What  she 
saw  were  such  thoughts  as  these :  My  only  comfort, 
and  yet  till  within  two  years  ago,  whatever  else  I 
did,  I  never  touched  drink.  I  swore  to  my  mother 
that  I  never  would,  and  had  she  been  alive  to-day — . 
But  Bess  always  liked  her  glass,  and  drinking  alone 
is  no  company.  Ah !  if  my  mother  had  lived  every- 
thing would  have  been  different,  for  I  outgrew  the 
bad  fit  and  might  have  become  quite  a  decent  fellow. 
But  then  I  met  Bess  again  by  chance,  and  she  had 
the  old  hold  on  me,  and  there  was  none  to  keep  me 
back,  and  she  knew  how  to  play  her  fish  until  I  mar- 
ried her.  The  old  aunt  never  found  it  out.  If  she 


THE  ATONEMENT  313 

had  I  shouldn't  have  £8,000  a  year  to-day.  I  lied 
to  her  about  that,  and  I  wonder  what  she  thinks  of 
me  now,  if  she  can  think  where  she  is  gone.  I  won- 
der what  my  mother  thinks  also,  and  my  father,  who 
was  a  good  man  by  all  accounts,  though  nobody 
seems  to  remember  much  about  him.  Supposing  that 
they  could  see  me  now,  supposing  that  they  could 
have  been  at  that  supper  party  and  witnessed  the 
conjugal  interview  between  me  and  the  female 
creature  who  is  my  legal  wife,  what  would  they 
think?  Well,  they  are  dead  and  can't,  for  the  dead 
don't  come  back.  The  dead  are  just  a  few  double 
handfuls  of  dirt,  no  more,  and  since  no  doubt  I  shall 
join  them  before  very  long,  I  thank  God  for  it,  or 
rather  I  would  if  there  were  a  God  to  thank.  Here's 
to  the  company  of  the  Dead  who  will  never  hear  or 
see  or  feel  anything  more  from  everlasting  to  ever- 
lasting. Amen. 

Then  he  drank  off  the  second  half  tumbler  of 
brandy,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  began  to  sob, 
muttering^: 

"Mother,  why  did  you  leave  me?  Oh,  mother, 
come  back  to  me,  mother,  and  save  my  soul  from 
hell!" 

Barbara  and  Anthony  awoke  from  their  dream 
of  the  dreadful  earth  and  looked  into  each  other's 
hearts. 

"It  is  true,"  said  their  hearts,  which  could  not  lie, 
and  with  those  words  all  the  glory  of  their  state 
faded  to  a  grey  nothingness. 

"You  have  seen  and  heard,"  said  Barbara.     "It 


3H       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

was  my  sin  which  has  brought  this  misery  on  our 
son,  who,  had  I  lived  on,  might  have  been  saved. 
Now  through  me  he  is  lost,  who  step  by  step  of  his 
own  will  must  travel  downwards  to  the  last  depth, 
and  thence,  perhaps,  never  be  raised  again.  This  is 
the  thing  that  I  have  done,  yes,  I  whom  blind  judges 
in  the  world  held  to  be  good." 

"I  have  seen  and  heard/'  he  answered,  "and  joy 
has  departed  from  me.  Yet  what  wrong  have  you 
worked,  who  did  not  know  ?" 

"Come,  my  father,"  called  Barbara  to  that  spirit 
who  in  the  flesh  had  been  named  Septimus  Walrond, 
"come,  you  who  are  holy,  and  pray  that  light  may 
be  given  to  us." 

So  he  came  and  prayed  and  from  the  Heavens 
above  fell  a  vision  in  answer  to  his  prayer.  The 
vision  was  that  of  the  fate  of  the  soul  of  the  son  of 
Anthony  and  Barbara  through  a  thousand,  thousand 
ages  that  were  to  come,  and  it  was  a  dreadful  fate. 

"Pray  again,  my  father,"  said  Barbara,  "and  ask 
if  it  may  be  changed." 

So  the  spirit  of  Septimus  Walrond  prayed,  and  the 
spirits  of  his  daughters  and  of  the  daughter  of 
Anthony  and  Barbara  prayed  with  him.  Together 
they  kneeled  and  prayed  to  the  Glory  that  shone 
above. 

There  came  another  vision,  that  of  a  little  child 
leading  a  man  by  the  hand,  and  the  child  was 
Barbara  and  the  man  was  he  who  had  been  her  son. 
By  a  long  and  difficult  path — upwards,  ever  up- 
wards— she  led  him,  and  the  end  of  that  path  was 
not  seen. 


THE  ATONEMENT  315 

Then  these  spirits  prayed  that  the  meaning  of  this 
vision  might  be  made  more  clear.  But  to  that  prayer 
there  came  no  answer. 

Barbara  went  apart  into  a  wilderness  where  thorns 
grew  and  there  endured  the  agony  of  temptation. 
On  the  one  hand  lay  the  pure  life  of  joy  which,  like 
the  difficult  path  that  had  been  shown  to  her,  led 
upwards,  ever  upwards  to  yet  greater  joy,  shared 
with  those  she  loved.  On  the  other  hand  lay  the 
seething  hell  of  Earth,  to  be  once  more  endured 
through  many  mortal  years  and — a  soul  to  save  alive. 
None  might  counsel  her,  none  might  direct  her. 
She  must  choose  and  choose  alone.  Not  in  fear  of 
punishment,  for  this  was  not  possible  to  her.  Not 
in  hope  of  glory,  for  that  she  must  inherit,  but  only 
for  the  hope's  sake  that  she  might — save  a  soul 
alive. 

Out  of  her  deep  heart's  infinite  love  and  charity 
thus  she  chose  in  atonement  of  her  mortal  sin.  And 
as  she  chose  the  great  arc  of  Heaven  above  her,  that 
had  been  grey  and  silent,  burst  to  splendour  and  to 
song. 

So  Barbara  for  a  while  bade  farewell  to  those  who 
loved  her,  bade  farewell  to  Anthony  her  heart's 
heart.  Once  more,  alone,  utterly  alone,  she  laid  her 
on  the  couch  in  the  great  chamber  with  the  trans- 
lucent dome  and  thence  her  spirit  was  whirled  back 
through  nothingness  to  the  hell  of  Earth,  there  to  be 
born  again  in  the  child  of  the  evil  woman,  that  it 
might  save  a  soul  alive. 


3i6       BARBARA  WHO  CAME  BACK 

Thus  did  the  sweet  and  holy  Barbara — Barbara 
who  came  back — in  atonement  of  her  sin. 

For  her  reward,  as  she  fights  on  in  hope,  she  has 
memory  and  such  visions  as  are  written  here. 


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THE  ALLAN  QUATERMAIN  ROMANCES 

KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES 

By  SIR  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD.     Crown  8vo. 

A  romance  that  fairly  bristles  with  excitement  from  beginning 
to  end.  The  story  of  the  quest  of  King  Solomon's  Ophir,  full  of 
sensational  fights,  blood-curdling  perils  and  extraordinary  escapes. 

THE  IVORY  CHILD 

By  SIR  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD.    With  illustrations.    Crown  8vo. 

"...  it  is  enough  to  say  that  when  Allan  Quatermain,  in 
the  opening  sentence  of  his  narrative,  speaks  of  this  as  '  one  of 
the  strangest  of  all  the  adventures  which  have  befallen  me  in  the 
course  of  a  life,  that  so  far  can  scarcely  be  called  tame  or  hum- 
drum,' he  is  well  within  the  mark  .  .  .  handled  in  Sir  Rider 
Haggard's  best  manner." — The  Spectator — London. 

ALLAN  QUATERMAIN 

By  SIR  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD.     With  20  illustrations  and  a 

portrait.     Crown  8vo. 

"  Haggard  has  created  one  of  the  outstanding  characters  of 
contemporary  fiction,  Allan  Quatermain." — New  York  World. 

ALLAN'S  WIFE,  and  Other  Tales 

By  SIR  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD.    With  34  illustrations.    Crown 
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ALLAN  AND  THE  HOLY  FLOWER 

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This  highly  imaginative  story  has  to  do  with  Allan's  search,  in 
company  with  an  American  physician,  for  a  unique  flower  of  mar- 
velous beauty  and  priceless  value,  presided  over  in  the  wilds  of 
South  Africa  by  a  "  white  goddess  "  and  guarded  by  a  monstrous 
ape  revered  by  the  natives  as  a  god.  In  the  tale  of  the  search, 
Sir  Rider  Haggard  finds  abundant  opportunity  for  those  touches 
of  mystery  and  incidents  of  breathless  adventure  that  have  made 
his  "Allan  Quatermain"  series  so  popular  with  two  generations. 

"The  series  of  romances  about  Allan  Quatermain  .  .  .  will 
some  day  be  read  even  as  the  great  series  by  Dumas  is  read.  ..." 
—Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO.  NEW  YORK, 


THE  ALLAN  QUATERMAIN  ROMANCES 

SHE  AND   ALLAN 

By  H.   RIDER   HAGGARD 

Author  of  "King  Solomon's  Mines,"  "She"  etc.,  etc. 

With  Frontispiece  in  Color.     Crown  8vo. 

$2.25   net.     (Just  Published) 

"While  Sir  Rider  Haggard's  latest  romance  will  give  keen  pleasure 
to  all  who  delight  in  a  well-told  and  thrilling  story  of  adventure,  there 
are  two  sets  of  people  who  will  find  in  it — the  one  especial  enjoyment, 
the  other  an  especial  profit.  The  first  is  composed  of  those  who  are 
thoroughly  familiar  with  its  author's  work,  persons  to  whom  the 
mysterious  veiled  Ayesha,  called  Hiya  and  'She-Who-Commands'; 
mighty  Umslopogaas,  wielder  of  the  axe  named  Inkosikaas  (Chief- 
tainess) ;  Hans  the  Hottentot;  and  Zikali,  Opener  of  Roads,  the  '  Thing- 
that-should-never-have-been-born'  are  acquaintances  of  long  standing; 
and  Allan  himself:  the  second  is  made  up  of  the  individuals  to  whom 
this  new  novel  will  serve  as  an  introduction  to  the  Wizard  of  Africa, 
since  it  will  in  all  likelihood  send  them  hastening  to  bookshops  and 
libraries  or  wherever  there  is  a  chance  of  procuring  the  other  volumes 
in  which  these  same  characters  appear.  .  .  .  The  novel  is  as  fresh,  as 
vivid,  as  full  of  dramatic  and  exciting  incidents  as  though  its  author 
were  a  youthful  enthusiast,  while  its  construction  and  deft  manipula- 
tion of  events  show  the  skill  of  the  practiced  narrator.  .  .  .  Full  of 
action  and  of  color,  picturesque  and  dramatic,  this  tale  recounting  the 
meeting  of  '  She  and  Allan '  is  a  worthy  successor  to  a  long  line  of 
fascinating  romances." — The  New  York  Times. 

"Two  generations  of  readers  have  enjoyed  the  author's  famous  book 
'She '  and  those  who  enjoyed  the  charm  of  that  great  fictional  character, 
She-who-must-be-obeyed,  will  enthuse  over  this  new  volume  in  which 
the  author  shows  that  his  knowledge  of  Africa  and  his  ability  to 
present  a  smooth-running  story  of  swift  action  and  hardy  adventure 
has  suffered  nothing  by  the  lapse  of  years.  The  story  tells  how  that 
mighty  hunter  and  doughty  fighter,  Allan  Quatermain,  accompanied 
by  Umslopogaas,  the  giant  Zulu,  and  the  little  Hottentot,  Hans,  reach 
the  mountain  fastness  of  'She'  and  of  what  transpired  there.  ..." 

— The  Boston  Globe. 

LONGMANS,   GREEN   &    CO.,    NEW    YORK 


THE  ALLAN  QUATERMAIN  ROMANCES 

FINISHED 

By  SIR  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD.     With  colored  frontispiece  and 

dust  wrapper.     Crown  8vo. 

This  book  forms  the  third  of  the  trilogy  of  which  "  Marie " 
and  "  Child  of  Storm  "  are  the  first  two  parts.  It  narrates,  through 
the  mouth  of  Allan  Quatermain,  the  consummation  of  the  venge- 
ance of  the  wizard  Zikali  upon  the  royal  Zulu  house  of  which 
Senzangacona  was  the  founder  and  Cetewayo  the  last  representa- 
tive who  ruled  as  king. 

MARIE 

By  SIR  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD.    With  colored  frontispiece  and 

other  illustrations.     Crown  8vo. 

The  story  of  Allan  Quatermain's  first  love,  Marie  Marais — 
"Throughout  the  book  runs  a  tender,  beautiful  and  moving  love 
story.  .  .  .  Marie  is  Quatermain's  wife  only  a  little  while,  and 
then  she  makes  the  great  sacrifice.  .  .  .  The  time  is  far  back, 
when  the  Boers  began  the  great  trek  from  Cape  Colony,  and  the 
author  says  that  in  main  all  the  historical  parts  of  his  story  are 
true." — New  York  Times. 

CHILD  OF  STORM 

By  SIR  H.   RIDER   HAGGARD.    With  colored  frontispiece  and 

other  illustrations.    Crown  8vo. 

"An  unusual  story  of  the  Zulus  in  all  their  superstitious  madness 
and  blood-stained  grandeur;  of  the  time  of  the  Impis  and  the  witch- 
finders  and  the  rival  princes  of  the  Royal  House.  The  story  of  the 
fascinating  and  wicked  Mameena  is  here  told  by  Allan  Quatermain  and 
is  the  second  of  the  three  romances  referred  to  in  the  Editor's  notes  to 
Sir  Rider  Haggard's  lately  published  'Majie.' " 

THE  ANCIENT  ALLAN 

By  SIR  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD.    With  colored  frontispiece. 

"There  may  be  those  unlucky  ones  who  don't  know  Allan  Quatermain, 
and  who  by  so  much  have  missed  some  of  the  most  wonderful  romances 
that  have  been  written  during  the  last  two  generations.  Here  is  an 
opportunity  for  those  cheated  ones  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  an  old 
hero  through  the  medium  of  an  excellent  new  Book." 

— Philadelphia  North  American. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO.  NEW  YORK 


By  SIR  RIDER  HAGGARD 

WHEN  THE  WORLD  SHOOK  \ 

With   colored   Frontispiece. 

"A  really  splendid  romance,  rich  in  color,  fresh  and  gorgeous 
in  its  imaginative  qualities  and  power,  and,  needless  to  add,  ab- 
sorbingly interesting,  is  this  wherein  Rider  Haggard  tells  us  of 
what  happened  'When  the  World  Shook.'  "—The  New  York  Times. 

"Rider  Haggard  has  again  unbridled  his  splendid  imagination. 
...  A  thrilling,  gigantic  wonder  tale." — Pittsburgh  Sun. 

"Speaking  quite  soberly  and  without  exaggeration,  this  story 
.  .  .  is  an  amazing  novel.  ...  A  really  splendid  romance,  and 
needless  to  add  absorbingly  interesting." — New  York  Evening  Post. 

MOON  OF  ISRAEL 

With  Colored  Frontispiece. 

"Never  has  Sir  Rider  Haggard  touched  a  higher  standard  than 
in  this  mighty  romance.  Never  has  he  given  us  a  more  convincing 
impression  of  verismilitude,  and  never  has  his  creative  ingenuity 
been  more  fertile  and  more  opulent.  Nor  has  he,  nor  has  any  writer 
in  our  time,  sounded  a  more  dramatic  diapason  than  in  the  telling 
of  the  over-throw  of  Pharaoh's  host  in  the  Red  Sea." 

"There  is,  of  course,  an  exquisite  love  story  running  through 
the  mighty  drama,  and  there  are  a  thousand  touches  which  make 
the  Egyptians  and  Israelites  of  thousands  of  years  ago  seem  men 
of  like  passions  with  ourselves." — New  York  Tribune. 

"It  is  a,  fascinating  genre  in  fiction,  with  a  psychic  lure  all  its 
own." — North  American. 

MADAM   CONSTANTIA.     The   Romance  of  a  Prisoner   of 
War  in  the  Revolution  (South  Carolina) 
Edited  by  JEFFERSON  CARTER.     Crown  8vo.     With  col- 
ored frontispiece. 

"Of  all  the  wars  that  have  been  fought  in  our  country,  the 
Revolution  still  savors  more  than  any  other  of  the  romantic.  And 
this  glamour  clings  round  its  memories,  although  we  know  that 
it  was  a  dreary  time  in  the  Colonies,  a  time  filled  with  harshness, 
cruelty,  heartbreaks,  poverty  and  desolation.  All  of  these  elements 
abound  in  the  pages  of  Madam  Constantia,  but  most  of  all  it  is 
the  romance  that  thrills  through  these  pages,  which  purport  to  be 
plucked  from  the  journal  'of  a  prisoner  of  war  in  the  Revolution 
in  South  Carolina.'  Mr.  Carter  has  the  art  to  enshroud  his  tale 
from  the  beginning  with  an  air  of  mystery  that  is  at  once  intriguing 
and  filled  with  a  sense  of  foreboding  out  of  which  gleams  no  light 
of  its  real  cause.  The  episodes  on  the  plantation,  in  British  head- 
quarters at  Winnsboro  and  at  the  old  mill  on  the  Wateree  fairly 
reek  with  the  atmosphere  of  romantic  drama.  The  story  may  be 
appraised  as  one  of  first  rate  quality  that  will  give  its  readers  the 
reward  of  dipping  once  more  into  that  rose  lit  world  where  Romance 
glorifies  everything,  even  unto  war  and  poor  humanity."— AT.  Y.  Sun. 

NEW  YORK:  LONGMANS.  GREEN  &  CO. 


THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

Author   of   "Under  the  Red  Robe,"   "A   Gentleman  of 
France,"  etc.    Crown  8vo.    $1.75  net. 

[Second  Printing 

"This  latest  romance  bears  ample  testimony  that  Mr.  Weyman 
has  lost  none  of  his  skill  that  has  won  so  enviable  a  record  of 
popularity  for  his  former  works." — New  York  Times. 

"Mr.  Weyman  has  the  skill  to  present  his  heroine  as  a  fasci- 
nating figure  from  the  very  moment  we  are  introduced  to 
her." — New  York  Sun. 

"I  really  think  it  is  the  best  of  his  many  good  stories." — Mr. 
Hamilton  Fyfe  in  The  Daily  Mail. 

"If  called  upon  to  choose  one  novel  of  the  season  and  let  the 
rest  go,  this  would  be  satisfying.  A  favorite  author,  long  silent, 
returns  with  new  force  and  skill.  The  spell  of  its  environment, 
its  even  construction,  and  the  appeal  of  the  characters  and  their 
ideas  are  capped  by  a  charming  romance  without  any  sex  or 
other  'problems.' " — The  Congregationalist  and  Advance. 

"It  is  written  with  all  the  skill  of  its  long-ago  predecessors." 

— The  Duluth  Herald. 

"Mr.  Weyman  seizes  on  the  England  of  the  forties  of  the  last 
century  with  an  intensity  of  imagination  and  a  saturation  in 
details  worthy  of  the  best  traditions  of  the  historical  novel  .  .  . 
one  comes  away  from  The  Great  House'  with  that  feeling  every 
historical  novel  ought  to  give — that  under  skies,  however  strange, 
and  with  men  and  women,  however  strangely  costumed,  the 
human  heart  remains  much  the  same  affair." 

— Newark  Evening  News. 

"Most  interestingly  written  and  it  has  a  splendid  love  thread 
running  through  it." — The  Boston  Globe. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO.,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


URN 


14  DAY  USE 

TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 

202  Main  Library  642-3403 


.N  PERIOD  1 

2 

3 

5 

6 

LIBRARY   USE 

is  book  is  due  before  closing  time  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

RY  USL          ' 

1978 

RCP.  r.iR  nn  ?~*)  *78 

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